


A Human Weakness

by my_deer_girl (my_deer_friend)



Series: Hold my tongue [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cheating, Daddy Issues, Domination, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Incest, Infidelity, Lams - Freeform, Light Bondage, M/M, Manic Episode, Manipulation, Mental Breakdown, Mind Games, Nudity, Painful Sex, Painplay, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Public Humiliation, Public Masturbation, Rare Pairings, Secret Relationship, Spanking, Submission, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, but with a different Laurens, incredibly dubious content, mild panic attack, read at your own peril, we are earning this tag this time round
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_girl
Summary: “Gosh, I’m sorry, but I’m about to head to the airport.” John says.“Ah, really? That's a shame,” Henry says. “I was hoping to spend some time with my boy.”Henry meets Alex’s eye for just a second.Oh. Henry’s here for *him*.Alex considered this possibility the minute Henry stepped into their apartment. He dismissed it as arrogant to think that Henry would go to such lengths just to play a sick joke on him - but all it takes is that blazing look to confirm it. He marvels that Henry has wasted his time concocting this ludicrous ruse - and then coming up all the way from DC to carry it out. For him. Alex can’t figure out how he feels about this.Other than angry, that is.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Henry Laurens (1723-1792), Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Hold my tongue [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873909
Comments: 92
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TAKE NOTE: This story earns its "dubious consent" tag (for psychological reasons), and Alex is having a manic episode - so if any of that's a trigger for you, best to steer clear. <3

“Mmm, I hate this.” Alex pulls John harder against him, hands tugging insistently at his waist and neck. He presses himself back into the wall as he groans into John’s ear. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Alex!” John breathes a laugh, though he does nuzzle affectionately along his jaw. There’s no way he doesn’t feel how hard Alex already is. “It’s just for a few days.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” He puts a pout into his tone as he untucks John’s shirt and digs his fingers into the hot skin of John’s lower back. He’s practically vibrating with urgency.

John hums and slides his hand along the outside of Alex’s arm, more soothing than sensual. “We’ve been over this. There’s wedding stuff that’s just easier to do in person.”

"I hate this fucking wedding," Alex grumbles, only half pretending his exasperation as he burrows his face into John’s chest.

John pulls back a little so that he can put his hand on the side of Alex’s face. He runs a thumb along Alex’s cheek and sighs with matching tiredness. "Gil was right when he said we should just do the courthouse thing. But, well."

Well. John’s extended family is massive and old-fashioned, and it's bad enough that John is marrying another man; he can’t also have the gall to deny them all a party. So, despite not really wanting it themselves, they’ve agreed to a big, proper, overblown wedding in Charleston.

John is only going away until Saturday, but that brief absence is not the problem in and of itself. In the last few weeks, wedding errands have been piling on, even though the date they've set is still _months_ away. John has been taking on the brunt of it since Alex’s job doesn't leave him a lot of free time - but it means that John’s been working night and day, and is so worn out by the influx that he falls into bed every night, stressed and drained and not in the mood. 

Alex is losing his mind.

It’s been _seventeen_ days since they last had sex, and Alex has counted every last nerve-crushing minute of it. He hasn’t slept properly since the fourth day. He’s been short-tempered at work, rambling and stumbling over his words, snapping at every interruption. Both of his legs bounce erratically every time he sits down, and there’s been a tremble in his fingers for the last few days that is starting to concern him. He’s trapped in a low-key manic episode and there’s _nothing_ he can do about it.

John can’t, or won’t, and Alex isn’t going to guilt him into it. 

His own hand barely makes a dent in his rapidly spiralling frustration. There are only so many times he can masturbate in the shower before even that momentary reprieve loses its appeal.

And to compound it, he’s touch-starved, too, because the itch just gets worse if he lets John hold him while he’s in this state and there’s no hope of consummating. So he avoids cuddles and hugs out of necessity for his sanity, and waits for John to fall asleep before he climbs into bed so that he can maintain a safe distance.

But now is his last chance to decant his overflowing sexual need before the record dry spell extends by _another_ four days, and Alex has risked everything on this final effort. John’s cab gets here in less than an hour. He’s genuinely afraid of what he might resort to if he can’t entice John into something - _anything_ \- before he leaves.

Alex turns his face into John’s hand, drags his lips along John’s palm and then opens his mouth and sucks John’s thumb in. “If you won’t stay,” Alex murmurs, dragging his teeth along it, his intent darkening his words, “Then you need to make sure I won’t forget you.”

“Mmm, Alex…” John is wavering. It’s been seventeen days for him, too, after all. “I need to finish packing.”

“Don’t care. I wanna wake up tomorrow still aching from you.” He hears the deep rumble in John’s chest and feels the hand around his upper arm squeezing a little tighter. He looks up at John through his lashes and sees the matching flame finally catching there. “Please,” he whispers.

There is a beat of indecision - then John crushes their lips together, wild and sudden, and Alex grunts into his mouth as John’s weight drives him into the wall. He shoots his hand to John’s waist for balance and feels John’s hand slide around to the back of his head, tangling firmly in his hair.

John tightens his fist, and the unexpected pull along Alex’s scalp forces a stuttering breath out of his mouth.

“Oh yeah?” John whispers, their lips a breath apart. “You’re being very bad, darling, distracting me. Do I need to put you in your place?” 

Oh! 

Alex’s eyes widen in genuine delight at the dark heat in John’s voice. 

Where is this coming from? Has their impending separation made John a little bolder, since he won’t need to worry about the awkwardness after an encounter like this? 

Then Alex stops wondering, stops thinking entirely, because John is dragging his head to the side, holding him in place by the hair as he lowers his mouth to the side of Alex’s neck and starts to suck a deep, aching mark on the taut skin. John’s other hand slides slowly but intently down Alex’s arm, catches his wrist, then pulls the arm up and presses it to the wall above their heads. 

Oh! Oh, this is _good._

Alex whimpers, overcome by a delicious hot flush of anticipation. 

The sound makes John freeze. He doesn’t draw back, but he stops the kiss. “You okay?” he whispers into the crook of Alex’s neck.

“Fuck, yes,” Alex groans, trying to put the weight of pleasure and reassurance in his words, and grinds his hips forward to prove it. 

He feels John smile. “Tell me if it gets too much, okay?”

Alex nods rapidly, even though he can’t imagine anything John could possibly do to him that would require it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, playing up the note of contrition to make it clear that he’s acting. He slips his hand between them and palms at John’s stiffening erection through his jeans. “Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

John presses into his hand. “It’s too late for forgiveness,” he growls. “I think you need to be punished.” There’s a little self-conscious note in John’s voice - but he’s trying! Alex has spent so long nudging him towards this, his _only_ frustration in this moment is that they don’t have nearly enough time to really enjoy themselves. After all, his sessions with Henry can last hours--

He banishes the thought instantly, but a bitter aftertaste lingers in his mind. It’s bad enough when John’s presence echoes around him when Henry’s got his hands on him--

“Take your pants off,” John orders, and Alex’s brain fogs over. 

This is so much better than anything he could have hoped for when he first pulled John away from his luggage. God, he might even get a full night’s sleep!

John doesn’t let up on his grip, so Alex has to wriggle and shimmy to undo his button on his pants and slide them down his thighs one-handed, as John nips and sucks a trail up his neck and along his jaw. John releases his hair, and Alex feels a twinge of dismay, but only until the hand curves firmly around his ass. 

John digs his fingers into the flesh and--

The doorbell rings.

They both freeze. The spell breaks. 

Alex looks up at the clock but it’s not time for John’s cab just yet. “Ignore it,” he groans desperately.

John hesitates just long enough for it to ring again.

“Oh, shit,” John says, “It’s the super with the spare key. Hang on, I’ll just be a second.”

Alex whimpers, a sound just short of despair, as John disentangles himself, straightens his own clothes and kisses Alex’s cheek apologetically. He waits there awkwardly with his pants half off, cock flushed and firm, hair starting to tangle, and the awful itch burning so badly now that John’s not touching him anymore that he actually starts to scratch forcibly at his forearm. He uses his adrenaline-heightened senses to track John’s footsteps across the livingroom and down to the hall; hears him turning the lock and pushing the handle down. A murmured voice, then John’s, alarmed.

“Father?”

What the _fuck?_

Before Alex can pause to consider, he’s stumbling frantically towards the ensuite, tugging his pants up and trying not to fall on his face. He clicks the door closed behind him and drops heavily against it as he fastens the button, then clamps a hand over his mouth against the litany of curses he knows he doesn’t have the willpower to suppress.

It takes him a moment to untangle his mess of emotions. The cold rush down his spine is not the delicious frisson of anticipation that Henry usually evokes, but a genuine flash of fear. There’s confusion - why on earth is he here? - as well as dread - has something happened? 

And he’s still so _fucking hard_ and wired that just realising it again makes him groan against his palm in defeat and anger. Because there’s _no time,_ now. John has a flight to catch, and Alex could cry and beg and throw himself at John’s feet and it wouldn’t change that fact. 

Why? Why? The question batters his skull. He can barely reason over the clamour of his nervous system. And when things were going so well, too! _Why?_

Alex can’t hide in the bathroom forever. He reasons that he needs to get back out there, just in case there’s been some sort of terrible news and John needs him. He tries to put himself back in order, but there’s no hiding the red welt on his neck or the bulge behind his zipper or the flashing frustration in his eyes.

His heart hammers as he emerges. Henry’s voice cuts through from the living room. He sounds light and measured, so at least it’s not a tragedy that has landed him here. 

_Of course_ Henry would find him at his lowest ebb. His nerves have been rubbed raw over the last two weeks and this is the karmic cherry on top.

He walks into the room, looking sullen and suspicious and not really trying to hide it. Henry is sitting at their kitchen counter, a glass of water in front of him.

“Ah, Alexander, there you are,” Henry says pleasantly, refusing to acknowledge his dishevelled state or radiating anger. John gives Alex an apologetic smile; he’s still blushing with embarrassment at being interrupted, carefully leaning up against the counter to hide himself from the waist down. “As I was just telling Jack, here, I was up in the city on short notice and thought I’d stop by and invite you boys to dinner.”

“Oh,” Alex says blankly. 

“Gosh, I’m sorry, but I’m about to head to the airport. The wedding errands, remember?” John says.

“Ah, really? 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I sent Valerie the dates.”

Henry makes a show of checking his phone and frowning. “She’s got it down for tomorrow. That’s such a shame. I’ll have a word with her.” This sounds entirely plausible. But this is _Henry,_ and there is no way that he has not timed his impromptu visit perfectly. Henry shakes his head ruefully. “A real shame,” he repeats. “I was hoping to spend some time with my boy.” And Henry meets Alex’s eye for just a second--

Oh. Henry’s here for _him._

He considered this possibility the minute Henry stepped into their apartment. He reflexively dismissed it as arrogant to think that Henry would go to such lengths just to play a sick joke on him - but all it takes is that blazing look to confirm it. He marvels, trying not to show it in his face, that Henry has wasted his scarce time concocting this ludicrous ruse - and then coming up all the way from DC to carry it out. For _him._ Alex can’t figure out how he feels about this. 

Other than angry, that is.

“In fact,” John is saying, “I hate to be rude, but I need to finish packing. Alex, could you give me a hand quick? It will just take a minute.” John gives him a significant look. Alex trails after him back to the bedroom.

As soon as they’re out of line of sight, John rubs a hand across his eyes and cringes. “God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea! I know we were going to…”

Alex puts his arms around John’s shoulders, even though his heart is thudding and it’s a risk that John will feel it. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Not your fault.”

“I do need a hand, though,” John says. “Won’t you pack up my laptop, please, while I get the rest of the clothes?”

Alex sets to the task, trying not to appear too sour, because John really isn’t to blame for this. Henry taints everything, so of course he must steal this precious moment of intimacy too.

When he passes John his packed bag, John grabs his hand. "I wanted to ask you a favour,” he whispers.

Alex tries to make a joke out of it. “You’re in my debt already, Laurens.”

“Yeah, yeah, add it to my tab,” John plays along. “So, um. I know it would be a little awkward, but I'd really be grateful if you spent a little time with my father. Maybe go to dinner, even though it’s just the two of you?”

_What?_

Alex tries not to let any of his dozen incoherent emotions appear on his face, and forces confusion to the surface.

“Wait, John, no, I--”

“Please? Alex, he’s going to be your father-in-law. I think it’s time the two of you started to spend a little one-on-one time together. Build a relationship of your own, you know?”

Alex doesn’t dignify the absurdity of this misapprehension with even a silent scoff. “You can’t be serious.”

“Look, sorry, I know this is out of the blue. But, please? I’d appreciate it. I think he’s really trying to reach out.”

Alex sighs heavily and cringes. Well, isn’t this just _perfectly_ fucked up? “I don’t think you know what you’re asking,” he says, knowing that the dread in his tone will inflect differently for John.

“I know you’re not his biggest fan, but maybe this is a blessing in disguise.”

A _demon_ in disguise, Alex amends bitterly. 

Alex can see that John’s not going to let this go.

And - well, fuck, he’s so keyed up right now that still semi-hard even through this whole disaster of an interruption. Henry _is_ here for him, and he must have a reason for all this, so perhaps Alex shouldn’t waste the opportunity - the blessing in disguise, as John inadvertently suggested, that would help him settle his sky-high blood pressure and unravelling mind. And it would make John happy if he agreed. Everyone wins - right?

John’s phone chimes with an alert; the cab’s here. 

“Alex?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Thank you!” John pulls him into a tight hug. “You’ll have a nice time, I’m sure.”

Alex grumbles, but he helps John take his luggage to the door. John gives Henry a quick hug goodbye, apologising again for the mix-up and explaining about dinner, then pulls Alex in for a kiss. Alex tries to ignore Henry’s eyes boring into them, but it makes the chaste kiss feel uncomfortably lewd.

“I love you,” Alex says. “Travel safe.” 

Henry clears his throat. “Won’t you give me a call when you get in, Jack?”

“Sure.” John opens the door. “Have fun, you two!” 

“I’m sure we will,” Henry says.

The undertone in his voice - inaudible to John, but deafening to Alex - shoots fear up Alex’s spine. Suddenly he regrets agreeing to this. It’s a _terrible_ idea. He’s already careening dangerously out of control; he’s got too much of a desperate itch for this to be _anything_ like safe.

He gives John a frantic look that begs, _Don’t leave! Or, take me with you!_

But John just gives him a little wink and a nod that says, _Please, do it - for me._

Then the door closes with a thud, and Alex feels every inch of skin on his back crawl.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alexander, you seem so tense.” Henry takes a sip of water and shoots him an amused look.

Alex has planted his hands on the kitchen counter, fingertips digging in so hard that they turn white. His shoulders are up around his ears; his jaw is clenched tight. He thought he’d reached some sort of emotional peak with his sexual frustration - but somehow this formless fury is cresting it. He can’t decide if he’d rather punch Henry or crawl down between his knees. 

“Why are you here?” Alex asks, instead of doing either. It comes out resentful. Petulant rather than pleading. Everything about this feels _wrong._

“Alexander,” Henry says, feigning a sigh. “As I’ve already said, I happened to have a meeting in the city. Such bad timing, with Jack’s flight.” 

Alex can’t help but cough out a derisive, humourless laugh. 

Henry has taken this too far.

No - Henry has brought this _too close._

It’s one thing to engage in this unnameable act down in South Carolina, when Alex is on holiday and out of his element, expecting to feel a little uneasy in surroundings that have always been warped by their illicit entanglement. Alex doesn’t like the Laurens estate, so he doesn’t care if his perception of it is tainted - all the more because John no longer considers it home, and would tear the whole thing down if given half a chance. It’s a cold and hollow space where Henry reigns supreme. 

And adulterating even those little warm nooks where personal touches have been allowed to persevere, like John’s room, is a bearable transgression. Yes, Henry forces Alex to confront the sickening way he is turned on by defiling John’s intimate spaces, but it’s only ever an _implication_ \- Henry planting suggestions about a long-ago-John who Alex never knew just to turn his stomach and harden his cock. It’s always a step removed from reality.

But this is his home. And _John’s._ Their raw and intimate space. Not the forbidding manor that’s haunted by the ghost of John’s childhood, filled with nostalgia and myth and hurt that John is desperate to erase, but the place where his real John lives and breathes. Here, the memories that litter the corners and suffuse every knick-knack are precious and private; they demand to be protected from _this_.

John has told him things in these rooms that Henry will never earn the right to know.

If Alex goes through with this, _here,_ this affair will no longer be the Charleston fever-dream that he can stow away when he boards the plane home. He will _always_ know that he has contaminated this sanctuary. Betraying John’s trust with his own body is a terrible thing; but it's worse, somehow, to betray the sanctity of the haven he and John have built for each other.

He’s going to _do_ it, of course. He just doesn’t _like_ it.

The fresh shame makes him ache, and he squeezes his thighs together. No sense hiding, now.

Henry is studying him through the long silence. His voice shifts to a sympathetic murmur. “Jack must be run off his feet with all the wedding madness, hmm?”

Alex’s eyes shoot up. Henry is smirking. “What? How did you--”

“Don’t lift your hands,” Henry interrupts. Alex was not planning to move, but now he itches to do it, just to disobey. “It is unfortunate how all of these duties seem to pile up all at once, isn’t it?” 

Henry doesn’t say it, but the implication is clear. So, it hasn’t been a coincidence that the wedding work has them snowed under. Across space, across time - is Henry’s omnipotent hand pulling every string in his life? The thought of Henry devoting this much thought and attention and _purpose_ to him-- Well, that sets off a weird pang that tightens his diaphragm. 

Henry observes his reaction, then continues, lower and more intent. “Jack doesn’t have your stamina, either, does he? Oh, Alexander, you’re looking flustered. Am I wrong to guess that my son has been rather too drained to, ah, fulfil his intimate duties?”

The angry flush on Alex’s cheeks answers the question.

“And yet - you don’t seem pleased to see me.” 

Alex stays silent. Conversation is not part of the game. Henry likes to talk but Alex is not required to respond - other than to mind his pleases and thank yous, or to make whatever equivalent sounds or gestures are available to him. 

Henry’s voice turns dark. “If you’re truly this upset, perhaps we should not proceed.”

Ridiculous. John is gone. He can’t bring himself down alone - not from this dangerous height. Henry knows all too well that Alex is left with _only_ one option, if he doesn’t want to ride out a full-blown manic episode on his own. He has, after all, designed this dilemma perfectly.

“Just say the word, Alexander, and I’ll leave.”

Henry’s trying to call his bluff. Alex is angry enough - momentarily more furious than desperate - to take this obvious bait. 

“Yeah? Fine, then. Go.”

Henry’s smile doesn’t falter; if anything, it widens. “As you wish,” he says coolly. Henry has never done a single thing that Alex has ordered, but now he leans down and picks up his briefcase. 

No. Henry isn’t _obeying_ him. Alex is _never_ the one in charge. Henry is setting traps and Alex is blundering into them like a fucking idiot.

He understands, now, what he has to do. Henry always likes him humbled, begging. Consenting to his own debasement.

Henry is halfway to the door before Alex chokes out, “Please, wait.”

“Oh, no, I’d rather not impose,” Henry says mildly as he reaches for his coat.

Alex squeezes his eyes shut against his own humiliation, digs his fingers into the countertop. His voice cracks. “Please, sir. I’m sorry.”

“That’s quite all right, Alexander. You don’t seem well, so I’ll just be on my way. Besides, with this poor attitude of yours, I’m not certain you deserve my attention.”

Wait. Something’s wrong; there’s an echo here. A soul-deep reverberation. A man’s hand on a briefcase. _You don’t deserve me._ The sound of a door slamming. The silence following it.

Henry’s pulling on his coat. Oh, god. He’s not _actually_ leaving - is he? 

Leaving him alone. 

Leaving him _behind._

“Please, _please,_ sir. Don’t go!”

Henry put his hand on the door handle.

“No!” Alex yelps, and none of the panic is acted. He wants to fling himself onto the floor, but his hands are glued to the counter. “ _Please!_ I’ll do anything. I’ll _let you_ do anything! Just don’t leave.”

Henry is silent for a moment. “I hope you realise that your impolite reception has made this worse for you. Does that change your answer?”

Oh, of course. Henry was never planning to go easy on him, but his displeasure needs to be justified, and Alex has walked right into this. He wonders, fleetingly, why any of this theatre matters. He doubts he was ever capable of genuine refusal anyway. Henry’s psychological hold on him feels absolute. “No, sir,” he whispers. 

Henry considers, then slides off his coat again. “Good. You’ll need to exert yourself to demonstrate your value to me after this performance, boy. That you are worth my time. I have ways to occupy myself that don’t involve dealing with your tiresome tantrums.”

Oh, so these are the terms, at last. At the moment when Alex is least capable of action, of intent or choice, Henry is going to make him _work_ for it. All Alex wants is for Henry to _take_ , so that the calmness of surrender can come over him. Drawing out this perverse foreplay is agony. 

Henry walks around the kitchen island until he is out of view, just a foot or so behind him, and stands there for an agonised minute as Alex tries not to squirm, then gives up and arches his back and sighs and shifts his hips, hoping to entice, hoping perhaps to feel some friction. Maybe, if he can show that he’s eager, Henry won’t threaten to walk out again.

Then Henry puts his hands on Alex’s shoulder blades without warning and Alex whimpers, confused between dread and yearning. That’s not where he needs the touch, but Henry is going at his own pace, running his palms gently up over the curve of his shoulders and back down. Alex is not so stupid that he will try to hurry this along now that the hands are on him. Too dangerous. He wouldn’t have the time to brace himself. 

Henry rubs his upper back, firm and caring, as though he wants to ease the steel ropes of tension there - but Alex reads every note of warning and possessiveness in the touch. He makes a desperate mewling sound as this pathetic crumb of contact sends fresh hot blood rushing into his groin.

He can’t tell anymore what is desire and what is animal need; but it doesn't seem important to make the distinction.

“My problem, Alexander, is a curious one,” Henry says thoughtfully, as though Alex isn’t writhing obscenely beneath his hands. A finger trails slowly down his spine, stopping just at his waistband before retracing its path up. “You have been an exemplary student until now. Your willpower has developed beautifully. But I feel that I have perhaps been too… permissive? I have lavished my approval on you far too freely.”

Alex bites his tongue against this patent lie. The hands run down to his waist, under his shirt and around the curve of his ribcage. He starts to shiver in earnest when Henry caresses his stomach, still standing far back enough that he doesn’t feel the yearned-for press against his ass.

“Perhaps it’s your pretty face, or your eagerness to please - I’m not sure. But worse than being so soft on you,” Henry says, as though he is genuinely remorseful, “Is that I have not allowed you to explore your limits. That is my fault. I rarely make the time to truly challenge you, what with all the interruptions at home.”

Alex’s heart thuds. Oh, Henry knows exactly which buttons to push. The implication that Alex should be tested, that he could _fail,_ is perfectly calculated to provoke his pride. He knows that he is going to suffer tonight - but Henry is going to make him embrace it and, if he is lucky and well behaved, will give him what he needs abundantly in return. Hopefully, Henry’s treatment will be humiliating and vulgar enough that Alex will be able to breathe easily again for a few days. 

“These maneuverings to get Jack out of the way were an unfortunate necessity. I’m sorry about all this, my boy, because I can see that you’re in quite the state. But you must indulge me, after everything I have done for you. You see, it’s been a long time since I saw you cry.” 

Henry drifts his fingers teasingly down to his waistline, then reaches around, unbuttons and unzips Alex’s pants. He tugs the pants and underwear down, heedless of Alex’s straining erection, and allows them to pool at his feet. 

“You are always so reliably greedy, Alexander,” Henry hums in amusement as his fingers ghost along the curve of Alex’s hip bone. “Is some of this Jack’s doing? He looked so flustered when I arrived, the poor boy. Tell me, what were you in the midst of?”

“What?” Alex stutters. 

“Describe it,” Henry orders, more coldly. 

“Oh, ah--” He doesn’t know what to do. This feels too much like a betrayal, to share intimacies surrounded by the mess of his own kitchen. “No, please, I-- I can’t.”

Henry hums disapprovingly, but puts a heavy hand on the back of his head and pushes down until Alex’s face is pressed into the counter between his hands. His elbows jut out awkwardly to either side.

“Alexander,” Henry says. “Do not think that I am senseless to your mounting acts of disobedience. It is not endearing. You will tell me at once, or this will become unpleasant in a way that you will not enjoy - even considering _your_ questionable proclivities.”

His instinct for self-preservation - because this threat is real and serious - wars with his yearning to keep John safely out of this. But John is not here; John chose to leave him alone with his father. The only hand that's going to touch his cock now is Henry’s and - damn it - he can deal with his fucking conscience once he has the ability to sit still for five minutes again.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “We, ah, we were kissing.”

Henry traces Alex’s bottom lip with a finger. “Yes, yes, and?”

“I was. Um. Trying to work him up. So he would--” He chokes on the words. 

No. He has to stop. He _can’t_ do this to John--

“Where did you touch him?” Henry asks, so low and dangerous that any plan to rebel instantly flees him.

Alex tries to remember. “Neck. Hips. Um, his lower back.”

Henry glides a hand up the base of his spine and under his shirt. “Here?”

A shudder. “Yes.”

“Anywhere else?”

“His-- Um, his, ah--” No, he _can’t._

A single finger touches the head of his cock and glides once down his shaft. Alex’s whole body spasms.

“There?”

“Yes!” he groans, confirmation and plea melding together.

“And what was Jack doing to you?”

It’s easier, fractionally, to talk about himself. “Pushed me against the wall, pulled my hair,” Alex breathes. 

“What, really?” Henry sounds genuinely surprised. He puts his hand in Alex’s hair, but only runs his fingers through it gently.

Alex nods, rubbing his cheek against the counter. “Kissed my neck. Grabbed my wrist.”

“Which one?”

He tries to remember. “Oh, um - left.” Henry steps around him, outside his field of view again. A ghost of a touch in the spot he’s indicated. 

“Is that all?”

Alex could just say yes. But Henry’s surprise gives him a sense of trivial power over this moment. “He made me - take my pants off. Ordered me. Grabbed my ass.” A featherlight touch caresses his rump, but Henry hums ambivalently. “Told me he would punish me. Was gonna treat me rough and--”

“Enough.” 

Alex clamps his lips shut. A realisation breaks through his aroused fog - Henry’s wrong-footed by this. He doesn’t know why. He's inadvertently goaded Henry into a moment of discomfort and it’s disconcerting in the wrong way. Henry’s not meant to falter. 

Henry prowls around him. Recalculating. Alex can only guess at his movements when Henry leaves his field of view, which makes him tighten and pull his already-strained hamstrings. He hears shifting fabric, then twitches when he feels a warm hand curl around his ankle.

Henry might be crouching at his feet, but that doesn’t change the dynamic at all. If anything, Alex feels more vulnerable now, with his hands and face still glued to the countertop and his tenderest places within Henry’s easy reach. Just the thought of it makes his cock twitch in anticipation. 

But Henry just tugs up indicatively and Alex lifts his leg, sliding it out of the pants leg that’s pooled on the ground. There’s a rustle, then Henry puts his foot back down in the same spot. He repeats the process on the other side, then stands again.

“Well, come along, Alexander,” he says, suddenly brisk and light. “Get your trousers on. It’s time for dinner.”

He doesn’t move. It feels like a ploy to get him to protest. Henry can’t expect him to leave the house in this state!

Henry sighs. “You may get up from the counter, my boy. Come, the car is waiting.”

Alex straightens up cautiously. No, this doesn’t seem like a bluff, since Henry is at the door and pulling on his coat. He reaches down to pull up his pants, and only then does he realise - his underwear is gone. He looks up helplessly into Henry’s impassive face. Henry just quirks an eyebrow, and Alex gets the message. He pulls the pants up, maneuvering gingerly around his engorged shaft, and fastens them in place. Ah, no! The fabric is too rough against his oversensitive head, uncomfortably rigid and coarse, with none of the support to keep him snugly in place. 

There’s no hiding his state, and there’s no escaping the constant bites of friction.

“Alexander!” Henry says, an amused rebuke. “Run along!”

Alex has just enough presence of mind to grab his phone and keys - not his wallet, he forgets that on the counter - and stumbles after Henry out of the door. At least, at least - his ruin won’t happen _here._

He doesn’t check his reflection in the hallway mirror. He knows he’s in a terrible state. 

He really doesn’t need the confirmation.


	3. Chapter 3

The car arrives - and it is a _car_ , a sleek black sedan, not a city cab - and Henry orders Alex inside. He tells the driver their destination and they set off.

Alex slides across the black leather seat and leans against the opposite car door, as far away from Henry as he can get without making it too obvious that this is what he is doing. The furious erotic spell he is under has dimmed a little now that they are in a public place, like some saner part of him is able to wrestle back control as the risk of embarrassing himself in front of strangers rises to the fore. But he’s still on a hair trigger. Henry’s not going to do anything untoward with someone else present - at least, nothing that will expose _Henry._ But inviting even a little contact - a hand on his thigh, or his arm - feels too risky considering the effect those hands have on his heart rate and the already uncomfortable tightness in his pants.

Besides, Alex needs to compose himself. He will have to get through an entire dinner pretending at coherence and civility - and, god, what if Henry tries to make conversation? Outside of this adulterous engagement, they have not shared more than a few minutes alone with each other, and even then it’s been in the context of bigger gatherings and family flowing around them. What they otherwise communicate repels the spoken word. Do they have a single thing in common other than this arrangement that they will _never_ discuss? 

It is impossible to sit comfortably with the way his erection is pressing against the hard seam of his pants, but he finds an angle that merely prickles rather than hurts. Good enough. He puts his head against the cold glass and tries to smother his fires, to think of clever things to say. Fuck. He loses all trains of thought as soon as the idea occurs to him that when his mouth is open around Henry, there’s usually saliva dripping out of it.

And anyway - he isn’t allowed a long reprieve.

“You look tired, Alexander,” Henry says suddenly, a few minutes into the drive. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit?”

Alex half-turns to Henry - he doesn’t want to talk back, but he is confused about what he is expected to do. When Henry pats his own leg encouragingly, he understands. 

Fuck. He doesn’t _want_ to be touched. Especially not here, in the presence of a stranger. More than anything, he’s afraid of what other shameful things this will reveal about him.

But Henry isn’t really asking, and Alex can’t afford to add more black marks to his tally tonight.

His neck burns hot, but he compensates for the motion of the car and lowers himself down on his side, putting his cheek against Henry’s thigh. Henry’s hand comes to rest on the side of his face, stroking absently along his jawline. Alex feels the press of Henry’s still-soft cock against his temple.

“Better?” Henry asks.

“Yes, sir,” Alex murmurs reflexively. But the touch is making him tremble.

“Good boy. Tuck your hands between your legs.”

As he does this, automatic and unquestioning, Alex becomes acutely aware of the driver just a few feet away, right in his line of sight. What must he be thinking? Alex’s chest constricts with a new kind of frantic tightness. He might have engaged in illicit encounters with Henry while others were nearby - the moment with John stands out the brightest - but they were always covert. This is the first time someone else is actually aware of and witnessing him being belittled. 

The first time Henry is permitting an audience. 

This should dump a bucket of ice-water on his arousal. But, traitorous and lewd thing that it is, his cock throbs thickly against his hands at this new dimension of shame. _Of course._

At least Alex knows this danger has been evaluated down to the tenth decimal and that Henry has found the risk of this exposure acceptable. What sort of sordid world must Henry move in, he wonders, that it's simply understood that his driver will turn a blind eye to this? He wants to get angry about wealth and privilege, but he has enough raging emotions to contend with for the moment. Besides, right now, Alex is the one most benefiting from the paradoxical security of the driver’s presence; it insulates him from the worst of Henry’s whims.

And also - he cannot deny that the hushed sound of the car, the gentle caress, and the totality of giving up his dignity are quieting his frenetic thoughts. He is still painfully aroused and ashamed, but these are simple things, in comparison, to understand and manage. Henry will fix this too, eventually, with cures that have never failed to be effective. 

It’s easier to be patient now that Alex is being gentled and focused. Steadied, for whatever lies next.

He wants to signal the texture of these thoughts, so he lets out a low, long sigh.

Henry, who has been busy on his phone, looks down.

"There, there," he says tenderly. "See? I always know what my boy needs."

He slips away his phone, and the touches change their tenor. Having doused Alex’s unwanted feelings - anger, resentment, shock - Henry now returns to stoking those that he prizes. The fingers become more intent - tracing his jawline, curling behind his ear, brushing below his eye. Reminding Alex of his vulnerability. Henry's thumb glides along the arc of his mouth, then presses down, and Alex knows what is being asked. He parts his lips. Henry slides his thumb inside, along his teeth, then to the corner of his mouth, which he pulls taut.

"If I had to choose my favourite part of you, Alexander, it would have to be your charming mouth - though I could not say if I prefer to fill it right up or to allow you to make your darling noises." Henry chuckles fondly. "Which do you like better?"

Alex starts, not expecting a question, and not sure how to speak with his mouth being pulled wide on one side. The last thing he wants is to drool on Henry’s trousers. 

He makes an uncertain sound, and Henry hums. "Well, yes, I suppose it doesn't matter what you think."

The other hand moves outside his field of view, and suddenly there is a slow, aching, wonderful pull against his scalp. 

He wants so badly to groan his gratitude, but the driver is _right there,_ and this is unknown territory. Alex doesn’t know what's allowed - or required - because others getting too close usually means silence. He tries to turn just enough to see Henry’s face, to catch a hint of what would count as good behaviour - because, in the face of this sudden affection, he does want to behave - but the sharp tug on his hair stops him. He settles for a quiet whimper. 

Henry releases his mouth, but not his hair, and continues to explore with his fingers. The thumb runs down the vertebrae of his neck. Fingers come around and trace to the front of his throat, pressing gently against the soft underside of his lower jaw. Then the hand slides lower, and Henry makes a sound of disapproval. His fingers wander down the side of his neck to the spot where John left a hickey. 

“I see that Jack has marked you. Careless boy.” Henry rubs at it as though to wipe the bruise away, then presses one finger more firmly into the spot. Alex feels the vein in his neck pulsing rapidly underneath. “And you, young man - you shouldn’t encourage this sort of behaviour.”

Henry’s tone is fatherly and scolding. Alex cringes. Thank god he isn’t expected to respond, or he might make a promise he’ll regret.

Then Henry takes away his hand; Alex can’t see what he does, but he hears a small odd sound, and then the hand is back on his face, rubbing a stripe of wetness along his cheek bone. Fuck. All of his senses focus in on that little patch of skin, even as what must be Henry’s saliva cools and evaporates away. 

It burns like a brand.

***

Their car pulls up outside a nondescript restaurant, its lack of signage a clear mark of prestige. The anxiety inches back up; with all the attention he’s been getting, he’s forgotten to prepare for this.

“Sit up,” Henry says, and Alex pushes himself back upright. “Let me inspect you.” Alex stares down at his knees as Henry fusses with his hair and straightens his shirt. Then Henry taps his thigh. “Open your legs.”

Cringing with embarrassment, Alex slides his knees apart and moves his hands down to his sides. The fabric abrades him, but he stifles the little hiss of discomfort. In full view of the driver - and, Alex realises, anyone walking past on the street - Henry reaches between his legs and digs his fingers in along his shaft, clinical rather than arousing.

He's hard, of course, but the callous touch reminds him just how raw and sensitive he is from the fabric that has been rubbing against him. He twitches away involuntarily, and whimpers when Henry’s hand simply follows after. None of this diminishes his firmness.

“You are such an undisciplined boy,” Henry scolds with fond disappointment. “Look at your shameful state.” With the back of his hand, he taps lightly but sharply against Alex’s inner thigh, and Alex jerks in surprise. “I will need to admonish you properly later.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers, as his groin throbs again at the overlaying sources of arousal and humiliation.

“Well, it’s too late for that now. Come along.”

Henry climbs out of the car, and as soon as Alex emerges, he feels that imperious hand wrap around his elbow and lead him forward. It’s a paradoxical comfort. It’s a reminder that Henry’s in control now - and that’s okay, because Henry never makes mistakes.

***

Alex fiddles nervously with the small fork at the outside edge of his place setting. Is it the salad fork? He can’t remember. John would know. Henry certainly knows, too, but Alex is not so stupid as to ask. He can’t imagine eating right now, anyway, considering how his entire body is knotted up in anticipation of Henry’s next degradation. 

The waiter comes to take their order. Alex hasn’t even attempted to look at the menu, but Henry isn’t expecting him to. He orders for both of them - some things in French that Alex doesn’t recognise, even though he’s fluent.

“And to drink, sir?” the waiter prompts.

“Wine for me,” Henry says, picking a bottle from the list. “Alexander here won’t be drinking. We wouldn’t want any, ah, misbehaviour later, would we, Alexander?”

Alex is surprised to be addressed, looks up, accidentally meets the waiter’s impassive eyes and flushes bright red. He stares off across the room and shakes his head, not entirely sure what the question was.

“I’ll bring water,” the waiter suggests smoothly, and moves away.

Henry follows the waiter with his gaze, then turns to Alex. “He’s an attractive man, wouldn’t you say?”

Alex turns inadvertently to look, then winces at how easily he's been led and fixes his eyes downward. “Um, sure,” he says, trying to keep his answer vaguely balanced between yes and no because he doesn’t know what Henry wants him to say.

Henry chuckles. “Oh, don’t be shy, Alexander! I don’t mind you looking.”

Alex just shakes his head - not a no, but a refusal to engage.

“Hypothetically,” Henry says quietly, “Do you think he’d be sweet and gentle with you, like Jack? Or would he give you what you really want?”

Alex stares at his water glass, worrying his lip. He refuses to even entertain the idea - that would be _cheating._

Henry’s voice gets lower, crueller. “Would you get down on your knees for him? Well, Alexander? I could ask if he’d like to make use of your talented mouth, if you want. I already share you with Jack, so what’s one more?”

Alex grimaces and shakes his head, hunching down in his chair - this time he does mean _no._ Also _stop._ Also _you are enough._

Henry’s voice sinks right down. “No? And if I _ordered_ you to?”

Alex feels his eyes prickle and his thighs flush hot as the image of it breaks through his wavering shields. He actually starts to consider Henry’s question. Would he--?

Without warning, Henry leans over, and Alex startles out of the dark train of thought when he feels the fingers stroke the back of his hand with a featherlight touch, delicate to the point of being tender.

“Relax, Alexander,” Henry purrs with a light laugh, dispelling the mood. “I’m only teasing. You belong to me.” 

But he _can’t_ relax. Alex swallows heavily as his breath quickens and a tremble runs up from his hand, though he doesn’t dare to move it away. They’re in _public._ People will _see!_ He glances around covertly to see if anyone is looking. Participating in this perversity is bad enough behind closed doors, but it seems that one of the limits Henry is so keen on pushing is the degree to which Alex is willing to perform their entanglement out in the open.

Henry keeps his hand there for a moment longer, then moves it to pick up his wine glass. “I wonder what people are thinking, looking at us,” he muses with a hint of mockery, which means he must have noticed Alex’s furtive glances. “A pretty, flustered boy like you, sitting here with me. I’m sure they are all getting _entirely_ the wrong idea.”

Alex flushes and looks down at his plate again. He _knows_ how it looks. 

“I have been meaning to ask,” Henry continues, switching tone and topic. “When you are married, are you planning to take Jack’s name? Or double-barrelling?”

The question is so out-of-the-blue that Alex looks up, eyebrows raised. “Ah--” Does Henry have the right to know this? Alex figures it isn’t really a secret. “We’re just going to keep our own names,” he says.

A corner of Henry’s lip turns down. “You would benefit, you know, from being associated with the Laurens family legacy. You should reconsider.”

Alex has had this discussion with John - not that he wants to think back to that tender late-night confessional now - and they’ve agreed there’s more than enough of _that_ legacy in their family already. Alex will never, ever admit that John considered taking _his_ name - or that Alex talked him out of it, dreading the fallout with Henry. Dreading that Henry would blame _him_ for it; perhaps even cut off this desperately needed lifeline.

But he says, “Okay,” vowing silently not to follow through.

“Good. You are going to be part of the family, Alexander. That comes with obligations.”

Oh, no, he’s not going to humour Henry by asking what _that_ means.

“Now tell me - because Jack certainly hasn’t - will your ceremony be taking place in a church? I’m not sure this sort of thing is allowed in our parish.”

Alex flushes and shifts restlessly, trying and failing not to get riled by Henry’s obvious taunt. “No,” he said quietly.

“Hmm. A shame. And I don’t suppose any of _your_ relatives will be there?”

Alex stares darkly down at his napkin. He catalogues his family - dead mother, vanished father, estranged older brother, a hazy parade of cousins and uncles he couldn’t be bothered to track down. He sent an invite to Ned Stevens, but Ned is in the middle of his medical residency and doesn’t have the time or the money to fly over.

“Didn’t think so,” Henry says lightly, taking his silence for an answer. “That’s for the best, then.”

Henry talks at him after that, a dull and meandering trail through topics that Alex has nothing to contribute to - conservative politics, Laurens family gossip, golfing trips. But he listens attentively, all of his nerves sharp and attuned for any hint of what might be next.

Their food arrives - a steak for Henry, something covered in an off-colour sauce for him - and Alex makes a point not to look up at the waiter. He prods at his dish with his fork without putting any in his mouth; his stomach turns at the smell.

He realises too late that Henry is staring intently at him.

“You aren’t eating.”

Alex purses his lips.

“You need to keep your strength up.”

“Sorry,” Alex mutters. He spears a piece of broccoli and puts it in his mouth, chews. It’s bland and soggy.

Henry cuts off a piece of his steak and puts it on his fork. He stretches his arm out across the table. Alex stares at it, then chances a glance at Henry.

“You need some real food in you.” Henry waves the fork forward insistently.

Alex bites his lip and glances around. The lighting is fairly dim, and the tables are spaced generously. As much as he feels the eyes of the world on him right now, none of the other dinner guests are looking at him.

The waitstaff are a different issue. There are a lot of them - certainly a much higher ratio than he’s used to at the places they can afford to eat out at. And they’re very attentive; he’s noted that the moment he sets down his empty glass or a dirty piece of cutlery, somebody is moving forward to whisk it away and replace it. Their eyes are constantly scanning the room, reading customers’ needs. Alex gets the paranoid notion that they can see right into his brain and all the filthy, humiliating thoughts swirling around in it.

But at least they’ll be discreet, if they work at a place like this. 

He leans forward towards the fork and opens his mouth. His cheeks burn with embarrassment as Henry teasingly shifts it away, then prods the morsel forward again. Alex pulls it gingerly off the fork and chews, slowly, warily, as though he suspects it might be poisoned.

“That’s better.” Henry smiles darkly. “Pick up your napkin. Slide it inside your trousers.”

“Wh-- What?”

What the _fuck?_

Henry sighs sharply as his eyes narrow. “Was that instruction unclear?”

“Um. No. Sir.”

“Well, then.”

Alex swallows heavily.

He chooses his moment carefully, when the fewest staff are around on their side of the room. Sucks in his stomach, grabs the starched napkin in his unsteady fist, then slides it quickly past his waistband. The fresh friction makes him clench his thighs as he pulls his hand free again.

Henry finishes eating and lays down his cutlery. 

“Keep one hand on the table and the other in your lap,” he instructs briskly. “And be sure to thank the server for clearing your plate. You know I don't tolerate poor manners.”

Alex puts his hands where he’s told, feeling the heat radiating up from his groin against his right palm.

The waiter appears and starts to clear the plates. Henry clears his throat.

Alex shoots a quick glance at the waiter’s face and - just his awful luck - catches his eye. “Thank you,” he says, but it comes out a little hoarse, tainted with his embarrassed arousal. He feels a flash of guilt, too, at involving this innocent person in their twisted game.

The waiter gives a short friendly nod and sweeps the dishes away, not betraying anything. But Alex can’t put away the thought that the waiter saw where his hand is, how blown and frantic his eyes are, how the flush on his face has burnt a trail down his neck. 

Fuck, this is _horrible._

But -

He hasn’t felt this grounded in weeks. Henry is pushing him with these covert little games, but they are blissfully simple as long as he doesn’t think about what he’s doing too closely; he has clear instructions to obey. That’s good. His brain is unravelling. Henry isn’t forcing him to think for himself.

Even though he doesn’t have permission, he presses down a little more firmly with his hand. Just a quick burst of pressure to ease his twitching cock. His eyelids flutter closed for a moment.

“Alexander!” Henry admonishes suddenly, too loudly. Alex’s eyes shoot open. A few diners turn to look curiously at them. Henry is glaring at him in mock-horror. “You wanton little thing!” 

Alex shakes his head desperately. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

Henry twists his mouth to one side, cutting him off. “I am going to give you a choice.” 

Fuck - no! 

Alex rankles at the sheer unfairness of this. He’s been so obedient tonight, doing his best. Isn’t the entire point of this exchange that Henry is meant to take over? He’s not holding up his end of the bargain, and after this prolonged treatment, Alex _can’t_ take decisions for himself any more. He makes an annoyed pout, but he holds back the little huff of frustration that threatens to escape.

Henry takes a sip of wine, prolonging the silence, studying him. “It is clear to me that you are far too worked up right now for us to leave without you causing a scene. Therefore, since you are so eager for your own pleasure, I must demand that you - well, take the edge off your frankly staggering ardour first.” 

Alex’s eyes widen, and he actually dares to look up into those dangerous eyes, to see if he’s missing something. Henry can’t mean--? But, of course, Henry’s expression remains impassive, a little bored.

“Now, you can either take care of that little problem of yours here, at the table - silently, of course. Or you can go to the restroom, but then you may not restrain your voice. I will be listening to make sure you do not cheat. Is that clear?”

Alex’s heart drops. 

“No,” he says - but it’s not a confused no of incomprehension, or a firm no of refusal. It’s a sad, small, pleading sound of disbelief. 

Henry can't possibly expect him to make himself come - here - in the middle of a public space?

Even worse, this is not what he _wants_ \- or anywhere close to what he needs. His own hand is not going to satisfy him, even within these layers of shame and exposure. He needs _Henry’s_ hands on him; needs to be naked and thoughtless and sobbing at Henry’s feet. If he orgasms now, he’s just going to be desperately unfulfilled - but also oversensitive and diminished. At the very least, this will mean aching discomfort for the rest of the night, even if Henry entertains the idea of allowing him a second, more satisfying climax. 

“No?” Henry says mockingly. “Let me make this clear. I refuse to let you show me up. I will leave without you if you do not take care of yourself swiftly.”

Shit. Alex doesn’t have anything with him other than his phone. If Henry walked out, he wouldn’t be able to pay - even if he could _afford_ to, which he doubts.

“Please - I--” He wants to say that he _can’t,_ or that he _won’t,_ or that _he’d rather save himself for Henry, for later_ \- but Henry will not let him get away with any of those. The helpless whine that leaks out of his mouth makes it immediately clear that he is going to comply.

“Alexander - make your choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't cliffhangers the worst??


	4. Chapter 4

Alex tries to marshall his logical faculties, but they’re utterly scattered, and in any case he’s not used to applying them to resolving the path of least public humiliation. 

He's angry with Henry - so angry at this unfairness - and sick with worry that this will not be enough to calm him if _this_ is all he's allowed--

No. He needs stay in the moment. That's his only chance. He can break down or figure out how to earn a better orgasm later. 

Focus, Alex.

He knows he can be quiet if need be, but being quiet _and_ still is harder. He checks his surroundings. The tablecloth is long, almost down to the ground, so he could probably hide most of his hand and his legs, keep his upper body contained while he works down below. Given the angle he’s sitting at, there are only a few people in whose direct field of view he is - who might suspect what he is up to. It would take considerable physical restraint, but at least he can manage his timing because he can see his surroundings. 

The other option is physically easier - he can move more freely, handle himself more quickly - but he won’t be as aware of who is around him. Henry’s not going to be content with little breathy sounds, so what he’s doing will be painfully clear to anyone who comes in or out - and who then watches to see him emerge afterwards. Of course there is the chance that _no one_ will hear - but his luck has not been good tonight and it’s not likely to improve at the moment he needs it most. There’s also the walk there - visibly erect - and the walk back - spent and shaken - to consider.

And Henry covets these sounds. Denying him that would be a secret form of rebellion.

“Alexander,” Henry urges, starting to sound impatient.

“Here,” Alex says, barely more than a whisper.

“Well, then, get on with it.”

Alex pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and looks around again, then shifts forward a little as he slides his hand into his lap, making sure the tablecloth is covering up as much as possible. His erection might have flagged while they were eating but it has sprung eagerly back at the promise of even this lacklustre resolution. 

He gives himself an experimental press with his whole palm and feels his thighs push together in response. His cheeks start to burn immediately and he looks around, guilty, to see if anyone has noticed. So far, so good.

Henry is watching him like a hawk.

Alex hunches forward a little and tries to find a satisfying hold, curling his fingers to get a better grip. But it's an awkward angle for his arm, and he can’t get his fingers around himself properly through the layers of fabric; can’t stroke smoothly or thumb the head. And he’s rubbed so raw. He holds in a sigh.

He won’t even be able to enjoy this properly.

He grinds his teeth and increases the pressure. The quicker he can finish this task, the less chance of the nightmare scenario of being noticed. His non-stop awareness of the people around him fills his gut with shame, fills him much more completely than the bits of food he’s picked at or been fed. His chest is tight, but he can’t deny the growing heat between his legs. His arousal condenses from a formless, pervasive ache throughout his body to a more focused, more urgent burn in his lower belly. 

The tablecloth - fuck. It hides his hand and groin, but the motion he’s making ripples through the fabric in a way that’s far too suggestive. He’s going to have to move faster to finish, just for a brief final spurt, and he didn’t reckon with this. He begins to regret his choice. But he doesn’t think Henry’s going to allow him to change his mind - and he can hardly dash to the bathroom now with his erection straining forward.

A nearby diner shoots him a casual glance, hardly more than a passing look, but Alex immediately cringes and chokes and looks down, stops his hand for a moment. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

God - he can’t. Can he? Is this who Henry has made him into? Who he's chosen to become?

Henry makes a small sound of disapproval and Alex immediately starts moving his hand again. No time for doubts. No space for questions. Moving faster, now, as he starts to simmer, a little more urgently, a little harder. The terror of discovery starts to ebb in proportion to his rising orgasm. He feels his breathing speed up, leans forward a little more, forearm resting on the table even though that transmutes his little vibrations into the glassware. Vision starts to narrow, until all he’s seeing is the table in front of him and Henry’s hand, running up and down the stem of his wine glass, inches from where his is pressed flat against the tabletop.

God, he wants to take hold of that hand. No, wait - he wants _it_ to take hold of _him._ Confirm that he isn't a disgrace; that’s somehow this is okay, that _he'll_ be okay--

He tastes blood. He has been biting his lip to shreds, twisting his mouth back and forth against the sounds he can’t allow to escape. He sucks the iron tang into his mouth, another element of primal sensation.

His thighs are shifting and straining minutely, trying to convert the energy of this rising sexual release that has nowhere else to go. His left thigh strains into a painful cramp. He ignores it, spreads his legs a little more to increase the surface area he can reach.

A desperate breath escapes, unbidden. He realises it a second later, glances desperately around to see if anyone’s attention has been drawn. Notices the waiter looking at him curiously for a moment before dashing off to take another order.

Oh god. 

His perspective - which had narrowed to the radius of his groin - stretches wide again. It feels like everyone can see, hear, _smell_ \- like everyone _knows_. He wonders suddenly if he’s actually committing a crime. Fuck, he can’t worry about _that._ Doesn’t care, so close to his climax. He just needs to fucking come, however shallow it will be--

“You’re remarkable, Alexander,” Henry says suddenly. “Such a naughty boy, putting on this performance for me. For us.” Henry’s eyes pass suggestively over the room. A pause, then Henry’s tone turns darker. “Look at me. I want you to remember why you are doing this.”

Alex drags his eyes up from Henry’s hand to meet his intent, proprietary gaze. There is no defiance or pride in him now, only desperation and desire. He tries to keep the rest of his arm still as he speeds his hand up, even though he knows the little shifting motion would be apparent to anyone who looked.

“Please,” he whispers, cresting the ridge, not sure why he’s asking for permission that has already been granted.

Henry’s smile turns menacing. 

He raises his hand and waves for the check. 

“You’d best be quick, my boy.”

The impending discovery spurs him like nothing else. Just the idea of being spotted makes his hips twitch forward. Knowing that there’s no way he’ll be able to stop now, even if the entire room turns to look at him, is what finally tumbles him over the edge.

He forces his eyes to remain on Henry’s as he jerks and stutters and sucks in a quiet hitching gasp, restraining his movements by tightening every muscle in his legs and abdomen, curling in on himself protectively, pressing his free hand hard into the table. His hot seed oozes out across his groin and he presses down with the napkin, trying to catch it, to stop it spilling down his thighs or soaking into the front of his pants.

But, fuck - it’s _such_ an insubstantial climax. 

Perhaps he was holding it in too tight, or the stimulation was too inconsistent and chafing, or the surroundings too terrifying. He doesn’t even go all the way soft again. Fuck! He wants to cry, to groan in despair, to scream.

Henry is looking at him with a trace of surprise. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “If there is _anything_ you would refuse me.”

A second later, before he can absorb this, before he’s properly caught his breath, the waiter arrives with the black leather folder containing their check and asks Henry if everything is in order.

“Oh, yes, excellent,” he says lightly. “Alexander? Anything _you_ want before we go?”

The subtext in Henry’s voice is sharp and clear after his earlier taunts.

The waiter turns to him politely and Alex wishes for nothing more than to be struck dead. He’s flushed with exertion. Sweating. Trembling. One hand is still wedged in his lap, the other splayed wide on the table. He can _smell_ his release - subtle, earthy and unmistakable. The waiter would have to be the most oblivious person in the world not to at least suspect what he’s done.

Disgrace washes up his neck. He shakes his head no, unwilling to speak in case all that comes out is a humiliating sob.

The waiter’s face betrays nothing as he nods and leaves. But Alex watches him surreptitiously as he crosses the room towards the bar area, and sees him lean over to speak in the ear of the server behind the counter. Alex notices her eyebrows raise and her mouth fall open into a surprised smile, then sees her pretend to look off into another part of the room as her eyes flicker towards him. He drops his gaze quickly, but not before she spots him looking back. Alex squeezes his eyes shut. He’s _not_ going to cry.

Henry clears his throat. Alex opens his eyes again as Henry slides the folder over to him.

“Work out the gratuity for me, won’t you, Alexander?”

“What?” he says. 

“Thirty percent should be fair, wouldn’t you say? Considering your extremely poor table manners.”

He lifts his hand numbly from his lap - it’s still mercifully clean - and flips open the folder. The check is for an obscene amount - there are too many digits for the total to make sense to him - and the numbers swim before his eyes. He tries to switch mental gears and fails; his brain is too flooded with whatever chemicals arise from this combination of post-orgasmic release and extreme shame to even begin to calculate how much ten percent would be, never mind multiplying that figure out by three. So he reaches for his phone with shaky fingers.

All his defenses are down, so he’s utterly unprepared to see the lock screen photo of John staring back up at him - a sweet candid moment of John looking lovingly at Alex, somewhere out of shot, that was caught by one of their friends. Alex swallows down the lump in his throat. Then he almost falls out of his seat as a message comes through right at that moment. John. Of course.

Feeling uncomfortably like John is watching him, he unlocks his phone and checks the message with an irrational dread of what he might find. But it’s all sweetness.

_John > Flight got delayed (sigh) but finally in the air. Sorry again about earlier - can’t wait to make it up to you. _

_John > How’s dinner going? Hope my father isn’t making you too miserable. Love you <3 _

He cringes down at the words, full of concern for him that he just doesn’t deserve.

“What are you looking at?” Henry asks.

Alex looks up and sees the disapproval in Henry’s gaze. Ah, yes, he’s being rude, looking at his phone at the table. “Message from John,” he answers, then kicks himself almost immediately when Henry breaks into a wide smile.

“Checking in, no doubt, that I haven’t torn you to pieces?” Henry muses, quiet and dangerous. “Let’s send him proof that you are alive and well.”

Before Alex can figure out what he means, Henry has stood up from his chair and walked over behind him. Henry’s heavy, possessive hand comes down on his shoulder as he leans down beside Alex’s head.

“Take a photo,” he orders.

Alex shakes his head in surprise. “What?” Henry can’t be serious. 

“Of us. For Jack. Don’t make me ask again.”

Alex hesitates for a moment before he unlocks the phone and taps on the camera app. 

The digital image that stares back at him looks wrung out and flushed, pupils wide. At least the light in the room is dim enough that the sheen of sweat around his hairline isn’t visible. Henry is smiling into the camera benignly when he takes the picture, just a little blurry from the tremble in his clammy hands. Unless John studies it very closely, he probably won’t notice the tightness in Alex’s lips or the shapeless panic in the set of his eyes.

Henry stays behind him, hand weighing him down, until Alex sends the photo and holds the screen up as proof. Then he types a message, uncomfortably aware of the stickly, cooling semen pooled in his lap.

_Alex > Dinner went fine. Have fun at home. Come back early if you can. Miss you already <3 <3 <3 _

He flips to his calculator. Since all rationality and basic numeracy have fled him, it takes him three tries before the percentage he works out looks like it could actually be the amount Henry asked for. He notes it down on the check and slides it back over.

Henry’s fingers graze the back of his hand as he takes it.

Alex shudders and starts to feel the itch again - already, so pathetically soon, at this meagre contact. But he expects nothing less, because if his own hand had been enough to satisfy him, he wouldn’t be in this dilemma. And the hand that he needs is not being laid on him firmly enough.

God, he’s shameless. But he’s ready for another dose.

He sits through the ordeal of Henry paying and chatting with the waiter, staring fiercely down at a small stain on the white tablecloth in front of him. Then he stands on shaky legs and follows Henry out, feeling like a tag-along child. 

It’s a relief to be outside, at least, where he’s more anonymous and away from the piercing gaze of the waitstaff, who he suspects must all know about his perverse act by now. As they stand and wait for their car, Alex starts to feel a slow oozing down the inside of his left leg - a tickle of shame that doesn’t let him stop replaying the moment over and over in his mind. 

Their car has just arrived, and Henry is motioning him towards it, when a voice booms beside them.

“Henry, you old dog! I thought that was you,” a man exclaims, and Alex spins in alarm to see an older man climbing out of another car and advancing on them. Alex catches Henry’s eyebrow twitch momentarily in alarm before the politician’s mask is back in place.

“James,” Henry says with a laugh. “What on earth are you doing this far north?” Alex notices that Henry has stepped in front of him, as though he’s trying to exclude him from this exchange.

“Sub-committee nonsense, as usual,” the man responds with a long-suffering sigh. “Though I could ask you the same.”

“Senate business,” Henry says vaguely.

“Right, right. And who’s this?” the man asks, looking past him at Alex.

Henry turns back to him, a warning in his eye. “Oh, this is Alexander, who is soon to be my son-in-law.”

The man sticks out his hand, and Alex has no choice but to shake it, trying not to think about how he jerked himself off with it less than twenty minutes ago. He forces a friendly smile into his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Nice to meet you,” the man says, then turns back to Henry. “I hadn’t heard that your Martha was engaged!”

Alex can see Henry warring with his response - the tells are in the tight lines of his jaw and neck. “Ah, no,” he says, with a note of defensiveness. “Jack.”

"Oh," the stranger says, and the sound is laden with implication as his eyes flicker back to Alex for a second, now more suspicious but trying to hide it. “Well, let me not keep you. We’ll catch up when you’re back in the city.”

He disappears into the restaurant. Henry bundles Alex into the car. They drive off - back to the apartment, at Henry’s clipped instruction. 

They sit in silence, a gulf between them. Alex can’t help sneaking glances at Henry, whose jaw is shifting tightly back and forth as he stares darkly out of the window. 

Alex realises with alarm that Henry has been unbalanced by their brief encounter. That was, after all, a wafer-thin call. If they’d stayed at their table just a few minutes longer... If anything had gone just a little wrong...

His heart starts to thud. This isn’t right. Henry is not meant to be concerned. Henry is not meant to make mistakes. Henry is meant to be looking after _him_ \- keeping him safe from everything but himself - and Alex is not equipped to do the reverse.

An untenable seed of doubt germinates somewhere deep and dark. He rips it out. He cannot allow the suspicion to take root that Henry could have miscalculated, because if he permits that little sprout, it will grow and spread and start to tear apart the concrete foundation of this illicit relationship. Childish though it might be, it is _only_ because he believes that Henry is in absolute control and entirely without doubts or flaws that Alex can participate. It would be utter madness otherwise. He is risking too much to entertain the notion that Henry has not figured out every angle for both of them.

He wants to silence his doubts and do something to help, to restore their connection, so he slides over a little closer on his seat. The sticky mess between his legs shifts and slides uncomfortably against his skin. He inches a hand forward, considering where he can place it without getting into too much more trouble.

“Don’t touch me,” Henry snaps, not turning towards him. “You’re filthy.”

Alex cringes away and mumbles an apology. All of this feels _so wrong._ Henry might be tough on him, but he’s never genuinely spiteful, and after Alex has been so obedient he usually has a kind word or gesture for him. Henry’s taunts are there to heighten the mood - but there’s no mood now other than gloom and dread. 

This is bad.

The intense heat of humiliation has burned off some of his manic thoughts, but the orgasm at his own hand was a poor dampener on his itching, twitching arousal. Alex _isn’t_ spent. He's counting on more, or else he's going to be in an even worse state tomorrow morning. 

And - worse, much worse in the big picture - is that the scale has not been balanced. Henry must be rewarded. Alex doesn’t like being in anybody’s debt, but the idea of owing Henry for unravelling him is impossible. 

The car pulls up at his apartment building. Alex doesn’t touch the door handle.

“Are you…?” he starts, staring down at his knees.

Henry turns to look at him. “I won’t be coming up.” There’s a stretch of silence. Alex’s heart stops beating. He’s just about to muster a pitiful plea when Henry adds, “Unless you invite me.”

Alex sucks in his swollen bottom lip. If Henry leaves disappointed and unappreciated, he might not come back. Alex can’t allow that, even though it means letting Henry invade their sanctuary again. He can’t leave any doubt in Henry’s mind that he is willing to do anything to continue playing this game, especially now, when he needs it more than ever. 

Henry has told him that he needs to prove himself, and he can’t think of a better way than to throw himself at his mercy.

“Come up, please. Sir.”

“Why should I?”

He hates it when Henry makes him vocalise his participation in this torrid game, but Henry deserves it for all his efforts tonight. He risks reaching out again, and this time Henry does not pull back. He picks up Henry’s hand in both of his and raises it to press against his own throat. A supplication. A gift. His pulse starts to pound madly beneath it. Henry's expression thaws a little.

The driver is right there, Alex realises with a start. But that fact feels trivial, now.

“Because I need to repay you,” he whispers. 

Henry is looking at him with a dark curiosity. “What for?”

Alex can’t bear it; he closes his eyes. “Because you came here to see me.”

“And?”

"And you've been helping me."

" _And?_ " Henry insists. 

“What--?” Alex asks. He doesn’t know the answer.

“And,” Henry sighs, and his thumb strokes up and down the side of his throat, “Because I still need to punish you for all of your disobedience.”

Oh. Shit. That. 

The threats and promises from earlier in the evening have slipped his mind in the face of the shameful acts he has so obediently been performing, but Henry has not forgotten - or, perhaps, his own discomfiture has reminded him of all the ways _Alex_ has fallen short tonight. Alex regrets his moment of empathy - but it’s too late now. 

And - his cock twitches. The itch is still there. They _both_ need this.

Alex nods at his lap. 

Henry’s hand slides from his throat to his elbow. “There, there, my boy. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks tenderly, the mask firmly back in place. “You’ve been very brave to admit it. I will try, once I’ve used you up, to leave a little over for your own reward.”


	5. Chapter 5

In just the few minutes it takes to move between the car and his front door, Alex transitions from relief - Henry is staying - to a nauseated, shivering sort of anticipation.

Everything is wrong, or at least different in a way they haven’t charted, and he doesn’t have his usual confidence that this will end in the way that he needs it to.

His hands shake as he unlocks the door, as though there’s a suppressed part of him that doesn’t want to allow Henry back in. But the lock relents; Henry strides inside, calm but unusually blank, and starts to prowl around the apartment, peering into all of the rooms and corners, putting his hands on everything. 

Alex closes the door but remains there, staring at it, with his back to the rest of the space. 

Half of him is lost. Now that they are safely back behind closed doors, a guard that he didn’t know he was holding up drops away. All at once, he’s exhausted, vulnerable, small - not in a state to choose any more actions, not even to maintain his posture or his neutral expression. He crumples down into himself, bringing his arms around his chest tightly as though to hold the loosening parts in.

But the other half of him is hot, bursting, craving, single-minded. His gut is tight with unmet need.

He feels delicately balanced between the desire to fall asleep and the desperate ache for Henry’s hands.

He can’t move. 

And he doesn’t have enough emotional armour to face the mundane familiarity of his home - of all the John-things and the John-and-Alex-things that are scattered around, invisible in normal times but humming with guilty resonance now. It’s bad enough that he’s staring at the coats hung on the back of the door - John’s lovely winter coat, and the matching one he bought with Henry’s gift voucher all those years ago. It was easy to ignore the provenance before, but now that Henry is here, touching, twisting, tainting everything-- 

He wants to burn it.

If Henry plans to defile his home, he’s going to have to make the decisions about how and where himself. 

His chest pangs but his cock throbs eagerly. It’s like he’s two incompatible people fighting for control of one mind.

Instead of trying to resolve the struggle, he tracks Henry moving around the apartment, attuned to every sound like a rabbit in a thicket hiding from a wolf. 

Henry is briefly in the kitchen, ignoring the mundane objects there, picking up a few bowls or mugs but putting them down again. Perhaps he would have spent more time here, if he had taken enough interest in his own son to know how much John loves the little space; how he has a system for everything and pantry cupboards stuffed full of curious ingredients that he trawls the tiny local specialty stores for; how much Alex loves to come home to a roomful of steam and warmth and delicious smells; how they eat their breakfast across the counter on the weekends, Alex manning the coffee machine while John makes omelettes or pancakes.

Henry spends more time in the living room, well named because they _live_ there - talking; eating out of takeout boxes; snuggling in front of the TV; arguing; doing their taxes or planning their holidays on the awkwardly low coffee table; leaving their outerwear slung over the backs of couches and their books and devices tucked into the gaps between the cushions. Henry trawls the shelves here, pulling books out and flipping through the pages before putting them down somewhere else. Then he must reach the photos, because he stops and makes a ponderous noise.

Alex’s shoulders draw further up, tight now with knots of lust and stress. He always thought it was silly how people in movies would flip over photos of their partners before engaging in an affair, but - oh, how badly he wants to do that, to make sure John’s captured image doesn’t witness any of this. But it’s too late now, and besides - he can’t eradicate every bit of John around him, short of burning the whole place to the ground.

His chest constricts against a sob, and the fire in his groin blazes higher.

He’s losing control over his emotions. He doesn’t know what to _do,_ and Henry isn’t _telling_ him. Alex regularly commands boardrooms. But now he can’t even exert enough influence over his own entrance hall.

He loses track of Henry. All he can think of now - an endless downward loop - is how badly he needs release and how guilty he feels about it. Every thought is of his straining cock, his tightly knotted belly, his trembling thighs, still covered in his cold, sticky mess. He scratches roughly at his arm against the itch - even though it’s futile, even though he knows the itch is in his psyche - and is just starting to feel his eyes prickle when Henry’s voice reaches him. Close behind. Too close and too far.

“Why are you still dressed, boy?”

Alex draws a hitching breath. “Help me,” he chokes.

Henry sighs indulgently and steps up right behind him, close enough to send an electric tingle through the skin of his back. He puts a steadying hand on Alex’s shoulder blade and brings the other around to his cheek, running his thumb just below his eye, tugging the eyelid down. A tear spills out, completely of its own accord - which of his emotion causes it, Alex cannot say - and Henry wipes it away.

“Oh, already?” he says, surprised but not unhappy. Alex just stares at the door in front of him, his back curled tight. “I'd have thought you'd fight me harder. I hope you don’t think this little display will get you out of what’s coming.”

“No, sir,” Alex whispers. 

“Take your shoes off,” Henry instructs, and Alex toes them off quickly and kicks them aside. 

Henry slides his hands down Alex’s arms and works them loose from their clutching protective hold, then takes his time unbuttoning Alex’s shirt. Every press and glide of his fingers against Alex’s chest sends another tremble through him, until he is vibrating. The slow build would be fine, if he hadn’t been building for hours already - and weeks. These gentle hands are not enough. He lets out a sad, desperate whimper, but Henry just makes a chiding noise. 

At long last, Henry slides his hands inside the shirt and pulls it off his shoulders. He traces featherlight fingers over his upper arms, his chest, then pauses at his ribs. He runs his palms over Alex’s rib cage a few times.

“You’re getting thin, Alexander. Haven’t you been eating?”

No, of course he hasn’t. He’s spent the last two weeks in a semi-aroused state of physical and mental distress. He chokes down the dinners that John makes, and subsists on a stash of protein bars that he keeps in his desk drawer at work - but only because he knows he’ll collapse otherwise.

“Not hungry,” he murmurs, “When-- When I feel like this.”

Henry hums disapprovingly. 

The hands glide down to his waist and around to the front of his pants, where there is no hiding his agonised erection. 

"Greedy boy," Henry chides as he presses down with his palm. It’s not enough, not _nearly_ hard enough, and Alex groans brokenly. "If you're this hard to satisfy, it's no wonder poor Jack is so exhausted. Or," Henry muses, stepping forward so that his lips are an inch from Alex’s ear, "Are you only so eager and wanton for me?"

"For you," Alex murmurs, knowing that this is the expected answer but also marvelling that it’s true. His spent cock reliably springs back at Henry’s cruel touch in a way it never does at John’s sweet one.

"That’s my boy," Henry hums. 

Henry slides open Alex’s zipper but leaves the button fastened. He digs his fingers around Alex’s cock, still wrapped in the soiled napkin, and pulls it free through the gap. Even this perfunctory contact makes him keen. Henry pulls the napkin away and drops it onto the floor at Alex’s feet; with the fabric gone, the little metal teeth of the zipper graze against his shaft and - oh, fuck, _of course_ \- the biting scrape adds another layer of erotic sensation.

Henry puts a hand on Alex’s upper arm and turns him around. Alex is trembling, and now he goes bright red too. It’s too humiliating to be exposed so lewdly; he’d much rather be naked.

“You are quite the sight,” Henry says lightly, more disparaging than awed. “But it won’t do for you to be so worked up just yet. Come. Sit with me.” 

Henry walks over to the living room sofa and sits down. Alex follows behind, then perches gingerly next to him, but Henry laughs, a little spitefully.

“On the floor, Alexander. On your knees. I thought you’d know your place by now.” 

Henry spreads his legs wider and gestures down between them. Alex’s cheeks burn with shame at his careless mistake, but he slides down to the ground and crawls over, kneeling in front of Henry. 

He’s closer to where he needs to be than any time in the last seventeen days, hoping and not daring to hope that he’s about to get what he needs.

The position is more awkward than normal; he has to shift forward and push his knees further apart to compensate for the sofa, and Henry’s ankles come around to the backs of his thighs, pulling him even tighter and wider. It pushes the zipper more closely around him and leaves the head of his hardened cock just a breath away from the coarse upholstery fabric. If he just tipped his hips forward an inch or two, he'd get some stimulation. 

He doesn’t. 

He won’t risk Henry’s wrath and, as much as he wants relief, he can’t stand the thought of that roughness on his rubbed-raw skin. 

He is suddenly struck by the memories, unbidden and unwanted, of when he’s gotten down on his knees on this carpet, in front of this sofa, for his John. A second or two more, and John will no longer be the only person - not even the only _Laurens_ \- he has taken into his mouth here. Alex squeezes his eyes shut against the thought. He _could_ simply shift away, stand up, put an end to it.

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he slides his arms behind him, hands holding elbows - at least he remembers that rule - and presses his lips together in anticipation of the next order.

Henry undoes his fly and pulls his cock free. Alex gapes - Henry is still soft - and another tear spills down his cheek, because he is already an absolute wreck and Henry hasn’t even gotten _started._

Henry takes hold of the side of his face and guides him forward, then digs his thumb painfully into the corner of his jaw. Alex opens his mouth in response, though he feels a stab of resentment - Henry could have just asked. He has never refused this service, not since the very first time. Henry keeps his jaw pinched painfully open as he slips his cock into Alex’s mouth, then shifts his hand heavily to the back of his head, drawing him down all the way. Even soft, Henry is a satisfying mouthful, but there’s none of the aggressive pressure against the back of his throat.

“There, now,” Henry croons comfortingly. “I can see you aren’t capable of anything else right now, my sweet boy, but you’re always glorious just like this.”

Ah! After the almost unabated degradation this evening - after being called _filthy_ \- the sudden praise overwhelms him utterly. He’s finally safe. No doubts. No audience. Perfectly at the mercy of Henry, who understands him better than he does himself, sometimes.

He swallows and gasps for air around the thing in his mouth as his nose stuffs up and he starts to cry in earnest. His cheeks soak with tears of gratitude and relief, as the stress of this night and everything that preceded it leaks out of him in one overwhelming cathartic flood.

Henry watches as he is wracked by sobs.

“There, there, Alexander,” he says softly, “It’s hard to stay mad at you when you are being so sweet. But, my boy, I cannot allow you to get away with your poor manners. It’s crucial to instil the proper attitude in one’s children - and you are to become a son of sorts to me, after all. That carries weight.”

Hasn’t he always dreamed of this, even if he isn’t readily able to admit it? Someone to guide and to teach and to carry his weight in the times when he is too weak to do it? Doesn’t Henry do all of these things for him, in ways that John - as his equal - never could? Does he not require _both_ of them to be complete? 

As the franticness and fear from the evening dissipate, he boggles that he ever questioned Henry, who is now being so kind and who is finally starting to _take_ instead of making him give.

“Oh, Alexander,” Henry says, and suddenly he is all tenderness and concern as his second hand smears the unabating trail of tears on his left cheek, “You’re so beautiful.”

The word pierces him. Alex thinks he hears more murmured comforts or praises, but there is too much of a dull roar in his ears to make them out. Just the notion that Henry is saying these things is enough to feed the outrush of emotion.

It takes an age before he can stifle his tears, and Henry rubs at his hair soothingly through all of it with the fingers holding the back of his head. 

When he masters himself again, Alex feels, miraculously, clearer. Focused. Something has knocked loose in his spine and the tension is ebbing out. The unrelenting hand holding him down becomes a steadying touchstone and he focuses again on just kneeling and breathing and swallowing gently when there is too much saliva in his mouth; Henry likes him to make a mess of himself, but wouldn’t be pleased to have his own trousers ruined.

Henry picks up on the change in his mood, because a second hand comes around to the back of his head, rendering him immobile. Alex forces his eyelids open so that he can look up - his face must be a mess, red and puffy and streaked with tears and snot - and Henry meets his gaze with a reassuring coolness and authority.

“I have been very patient all night, wouldn’t you agree, my boy?” Henry asks.

Alex hums an affirmation.

He feels Henry settle more deeply into the sofa, then start to pulse his hips forward, tiny grinding motions against his widespread lips. He’s already being held down as far as he can go, so the motion is small - but it’s inescapable.

"I cannot fathom why Jack ever allows you up off your knees. I'd keep you properly filled all the time, Alexander. And I do, don't I, whenever you crawl back to me in this desperate state."

Oh, this is _better;_ this is _good._ The taunts are familiar ground - conjuring John, belittling him - and the hardening cock gives him something to focus his attention on, the permission to allow the rest of the world to ebb away. Alex lets out a moan of relief right as the invasive shaft catches at the entrance to his throat - a little rumble of appreciation that he knows Henry must feel.

Because Henry does not withdraw as he stiffens, Alex feels the strange sensation of his throat slowly becoming filled - it’s a little like a tide rising, forcing him to draw air in more carefully. His chest burns with the anticipation of the moment where it will become properly hard to breathe. And - what then? Will Henry hold him down, deep and unyielding, until Alex’s muffled grunts of panic become genuinely frantic? Or is Henry going to be fast and careless, ramming his spasming throat at an erratic pace that doesn’t allow him to properly subdue his gag reflex? He’s eaten so little that he isn’t afraid of throwing up.

Henry won’t ask, or say, and it doesn’t matter what Alex prefers. Either way, he’ll be preoccupied and used, and that’s what counts. His only job will be to endure and to try to breathe. Nothing could be simpler. His anxiety abates in the face of this more primal exchange. 

"You've done this for him here, haven't you? For Jack," Henry asks suddenly. 

The memories flood back. He doesn’t want to answer that. 

Henry grumbles and, tightening his grip, drags Alex down sharply. He didn’t think there _was_ further to go, but the cock in his throat jams hard against his palate and he gurgles involuntarily, eyes swimming. He feels a sharp sting on his lip, and realises it must have torn open again - no surprise given how raw he’s chewed it all night and how widely he is forced to stretch it open now to accommodate the hardening cock.

"Answer me," Henry demands, and this time Alex nods in the limited range between hands and cock, and hums a yes for good measure. "As I thought. I won't make you compare the quality of the experience, of course, but tell me - has he ever gone quite so deep?"

Alex squeezes his eyes shut. No, of course not, because no matter how many times Alex has insisted that he enjoys it, John can't stand the sound or feel of his choking.

And, he thinks disloyally - Henry is simply bigger.

Although he doesn't answer, Henry must see this written on his face. “Good, good,” he hums, and as though to prove the point, he lifts Alex off just an inch so he can push in all the way again.

Henry has calmed his frantic emotions, and now this rough treatment allows the arousal to rise bright and hot to the forefront of his mind. He can’t help the little twitches of his hips and the way his thighs tighten and strain, wanting to press tight together but having nowhere to go from where they are jammed against the sofa.

Ah, now, finally, Henry’s almost fully hard; Alex is on the precipice of breathlessness--

The doorbell chimes.

Alex gets such a genuine fright that he startles up, eyes shooting open, and tries to pull back. When Henry’s hands don’t release him, he starts to choke in earnest - and he’s so panicked that, by instinct rather than with any real intent, his hands fly around from where they’re supposed to be held back and push back against the sofa. There’s not a lot of strength in his gesture, but Henry must see the different tenor in his alarm and lets him go. Alex sprawls back and heaves for air. Nausea floods up from his stomach. 

His momentary grasp on serenity is ripped away. Like it was never there. The gossamer wall holding the tide back falls away, and wave after wave of anxiety crashes over him.

The doorbell rings again.

“Alexander?” Henry says, sounding distant over the rush in his ears, “You’d best go answer the door.”

This sounds like an instruction. Simple one. Yes. Okay. He can obey it. Alex untangles his limbs and stands, shaky and dizzy. He remembers he’s half-undressed, quickly tucks himself back in, then grabs John’s discarded hoodie from the armchair and slides it over his head. There’s a confused whiff of cologne. His stomach clenches. He wipes at the tears on his face frantically with the sleeve, but there’s no hiding the unhinged state he’s in.

A red smear blooms on the sleeve. Blood from his lip. Shit.

He stumbles over to the door and doesn’t even check who’s there before he swings it open. His chest feels frighteningly tight.

He comes face to face with the superintendent, whose expression races from bored to surprised to shocked to embarrassed.

“Evening,” she says, as a blush starts to colour her cheeks and her eyes fail to meet his. “Sorry to interrupt - but, ah, Mr Laurens wanted me to bring past the spare key?” She holds it out. Alex looks at it dumbly for a second before he realises - _John,_ not Henry. There are too many Mr Laurenses in his life. He takes it from her. “Sorry. You need to sign for it. Here.” She holds out a clipboard. A simple instruction. He can do it. He signs a trembling mess of a signature. “Thanks. Have - uh, have a fun night,” she says, and gives him an awkward little cringing smile that leaves him in no doubt that she knows what he's up to.

He closes the door. 

Fuck. 

A flood of icy fear takes his breath away.

Fuck fuck _fuck!_

He falls back against the door as his legs become unsteady, and he clamps a hand over his mouth.

No, no no--

She must think John is here if she’s brought his key - but what if she’d seen John leave? What if John happens to mention he was already away when she came by? What if she puts the pieces together and she tells someone? 

Tells John?

Oh god, oh fuck, he’s flying too close to the sun--

He should _never_ have allowed Henry back here. 

John didn’t give him a fucking choice!

No, no, no-- He’s inches from immolating everything worthwhile in his life. 

Oh god - _John._

What would John say? What would John do?

It’s too much. Too much. Too much. He is overflowing with-- with _everything._

He tries to breathe. To tell himself it’s okay. She didn’t really see. She doesn’t really know. 

He _can’t_ breathe.

He’s on a knife-edge. A cliff-edge. The fact that he can see the drop doesn’t make him want to step back - it pulls him, the gravity of vertigo. This entire ordeal has dragged him further away from the tranquility he needs and he has never, never, _never_ been so unhinged from his centre. 

The fall seems so inevitable. 

_Jump, Alex,_ a voice says, _You may as well enjoy the weightless moment of flight before you’re dashed to bits._

His chest feels so tight he thinks he might die.

Somebody is gasping and sobbing and Alex realises with astonishment that it’s him.

Henry--

Henry came here for a reason. Has spent weeks breaking him down just to deliver him into this frantic state. But for what? For these pathetic games and gentle touches and excuses to humiliate him? Alex doesn’t want shame - he needs to _surrender._

Henry knows this! Henry put him on this high cliff top, and Henry must get him down. Henry _never_ makes mistakes.

Except Henry did - almost - make a mistake today.

No, no, no! He can’t feed that fear.

Henry.

There is _no other choice._

He throws himself over the edge.

It makes things simple: Henry must catch him, or he must die.

Alex stumbles back into the living room - sobbing furiously, face twisted into something mad and fierce, tugging his own hair, entirely irrational now - and starts tearing off his clothes.

Henry stands up with a dark, unnerving, alarmed look in his eyes.

Alex’s voice comes out feverish and broken. “Why?” he wails, dashing John’s hoodie against the floor. “Why are you here?”

Before Henry can react, Alex throws himself down on his knees at Henry’s feet. He discards the cardinal rule - no touching without permission - and scrabbles frantically at Henry’s thighs with his fingers.

“You need to-- God! You need to fuck me up! Just _do it_ already!” 

“Alexander,” Henry warns. 

He is beyond fear - or perhaps, he is so full of fear that he has lost his mind. 

He pushes his hands up to Henry’s hips. Digs them in. “Come on, come on, do it,” he taunts frantically, not really aware of what he’s saying, pulling at Henry’s clothing. Presses his face against Henry’s groin. “Shove it in already. Coward! You fucking coward! Or get the fuck out. Leave! You’ll leave me eventually! So just get it over with.”

“Alexander!” Henry roars.

Good. He should get Henry angry. Nothing else has worked, so maybe Henry needs to go somewhere he has never gone - to truly lose his control.

He tears ineffectively at the fastenings of Henry’s pants, touches this entirely forbidden area. “I need you! Fuck! Do your fucking _job!_ ”

Henry’s fist shoots out to his hair, and the iron grip drags his head back. The other hand flashes out and he feels a sting explode across his cheek. 

God!

The strike knocks every thought out of his brain for a single, silent, perfect moment. 

He takes his first proper - ragged, hitching - breath in hours. His lungs fill so fully that he’s giddy with it.

Oh god - oh god - oh _god_ it’s quiet. It’s _wonderful._

He looks up, wide eyed, slack jawed, panting; expects to see the disparaging grin from his most erotic nightmares. But instead, he finds something raw and sharp. Some unravelled threads of composure. He rarely gets to look into these eyes in moments of passion, but he recognises by the fragmented flicker that Henry has let some of his guard fall. That he’s acted on impulse rather than careful strategy. 

The silence in Alex’s brain lasts only a moment longer.

There is a distant hum of mental noise, then a rumble - then it starts to flood back. The panic. The fear. The doubt about Henry, about himself. The remorse and shame and regret that he _doesn’t want._

There is a long moment when they just stare at each other. Alex pleads through his gaze, and he sees Henry warring with something sinister - it’s all over his brow and his lips and his tensing fingers. 

Henry needs to take the noise away again. He’s falling and Henry needs to fucking catch him!

His fingers grasp and twitch against Henry’s cock. “Do it again,” he groans, pleads, sobs. Twists his head just to feel the sharp pull of Henry’s fist in his hair.

Henry’s eyes become stormy. The frown that spreads is grim and narrow and completely new and - fuck! - Alex has done it! The unfamiliar tempest in Henry’s eyes promises a new kind of misuse, a degradation that is hot and instinctual, passionate and uncontrolled. He’s thrown Henry from his pedestal of control and intent. 

But, fuck - doesn’t that mean they are _both_ falling now?

“Did you just give me an order, you depraved boy?” Henry growls, hoarse and feverish, dragging his head back further. “I am going to destroy you for that.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: very dubious consent ahead. And please heed the updated tags.

Henry readjusts his grip on Alex’s hair, taking a bigger handful closer to the crown of his head, and drags his head back, hard. His other hand grips painfully around his jaw, driving his face up.

“If you choose to act like a little brat,” Henry growls, “Then that’s how I will treat you.”

Heedless that Alex is still on his knees, he starts to walk, tugging insistently. Alex scrabbles with his hands against the agonising pull, then tries to get his feet underneath him - but he’s stumbling, wrongfooted, and every misstep costs him another flash of pain through his scalp and forces out an agonised yelp. 

Fuck! He should be quieter. Someone will hear! 

“I have raised teenagers,” Henry continues through clenched teeth. “I know what acting out looks like. I know you’re just trying to provoke me. And, oh, Alexander, I know _exactly_ how to put you back in your place.”

Henry drags him into the bedroom, then yanks Alex around so that he stumbles against the bed. Alex leans heavily onto it, shaking arms stretched out to support him, bile rising, his scalp burning.

It’s secondary to the burn in his chest. He just _can’t_ get enough air.

Fuck! Henry needs to _do something!_ His head is still spinning with too many kinds of panic--

\--Henry’s hand comes down on the back of his neck, fingers digging in, and the world takes a step back.

Henry leans down to murmur in his ear. “You are a disgrace to me, Alexander, and because of that, you have earned every moment of this punishment. I won’t stop until I am satisfied that you have remembered your place.” There’s a hoarse catch in Henry’s voice.

Oh god. 

Henry has taught him that there are many textures and flavours to anticipation - it can darken into dread, or crest to an erotic high; thud heavily in his chest or tickle down his back or paint lewd pictures in his mind. But he has never felt it come this close to genuine fear.

His stomach twists and his legs tremble, but - mercifully - Henry has managed to gather all the threads of his panic and weave them together, until the only thing Alex can focus on being afraid of is Henry himself.

He _is_ scared. He knows Henry, and because of that, he knows that there is precious little of him here now; Henry is synonymous with control and nobody is at the wheel anymore.

“Please, I’m sorry,” he chokes, hoping Henry will extract a meaning from this that he can’t even insert himself.

“It’s too late for that.” 

Henry straightens and his hands grip around Alex’s hips. He unfastens Alex’s pants and yanks them down, quick, rough, his cock dragging with the fabric for a moment before it springs painfully free.

“Oh god,” Alex moans, and he’s not even sure if there’s any excitement blended with the fear on his lips anymore.

Henry’s voice is abnormally rough with emotion. “Get on the bed. Hands and knees.” 

Alex scrambles to comply, his feet still tangled in his pants. His arms are shaking so badly that they are barely able to support him. 

Alex flinches violently when Henry’s hand touches the curve of his rump, but he realises a moment later that it’s just a gentle caress. Henry laughs cruelly at his reaction, then yanks the pants off the rest of the way, throwing Alex dangerously off balance - though he manages, somehow, not to go sprawling.

Henry prowls around to the other side of the bed. His hand reaches out to the back of Alex’s head and grips at the base of his skull - hard enough that Alex can feel the tremor in it. “Face down,” Henry sneers as he pushes, “I can’t stand the sight of you.” Alex’s arms give way like twigs, and Henry presses his cheek onto the bedspread. It leaves his ass up in the air, dangerously exposed.

Henry grabs a corner of the duvet and pulls it over Alex’s head, traps him in a hot, stuffy darkness that smells of his safest place.

It’s not safe now.

For a moment, he yearns desperately for John. To hold him, to banish the fear in a different way, to whisper sweet things into his hair as he wraps Alex up in this duvet and lets him cry himself to sleep. But there’s no comfort in thinking of John now, and he banishes the image; not even the John is his mind should be witness to this.

Then Henry’s rough murmur is close beside his ear. “Remember that this is your fault, Alexander. _You_ brought this on yourself.” A pause. “Hold your legs open.”

Alex doesn’t try to question or to predict what is happening; he reaches around to grip tightly at his thighs, just above the backs of his knees. The position immediately starts to strain his neck and shoulders - but he is certain that this little discomfort is not going to bother him for long.

With his chest pressed down and the duvet over his head, he really can’t catch his breath - and he can’t see or hear properly, so he can do nothing to brace for what is coming.

The mattress dips beside him and Henry’s hand settles heavily between his shoulder blades. This is a warning. If Henry thinks he actually needs a physical reminder that he is not allowed to move, this signals a treatment Alex will want to escape from. He lets out a shaky breath.

"I will explain as I discipline you, Alexander. I want to be sure that the correct lesson is sinking in, since you seem to be too stupid to figure it out yourself. Do you understand?”

He twists his head against the duvet, trying to nod. 

Henry’s fingers pinch sharply at the very top of his thigh. “Answer me.”

“Yes!” he yelps. 

Henry’s weight lifts from the bed and Alex is left alone and exposed, his legs pulled open and his buttocks in the air - unprotected, vulnerable. 

Then Alex hears the slide of Henry’s belt pulling free.

Oh, fuck! 

His legs start to tremble. 

He should have guessed, but this is all so terrifyingly new and his brain is still full of noise and fear chemicals and he wants to squirm and run and hide away--

\--but, god, if there is _any_ chance this will fix him--

Henry is speaking in a dark, clipped tone. “You asked why I came here. Why? To see you, of course, you spiteful, ungrateful boy. But you have been so ill-mannered. _You_ have pushed me beyond kindness. To _this._ " 

There is a snap and twist of leather. 

Alex’s cock twitches, betraying him.

“Shameful, that you crave even this. I will leave _my_ marks on you tonight, Jack be damned.”

There is rawness in Henry’s tone that Alex has never heard in his spoken words; it only appears in the final throes of climax. It dawns on him that Henry is getting aroused at just the _notion_ of whipping him. 

There is always something new to learn.

The world is dark and muffled, and although Alex is as tensed as steel wires, he is absolutely unprepared for the first blow. The belt licks and snaps across his upper thighs, hot like a brand, and he lets out a choked cry of surprise and hurt. Warmth rises in its wake.

“You seem to have forgotten, Alexander, that you are _mine_ ,” Henry says, and runs a possessive hand along the path of the stroke. “Mine to command. Mine to use. Mine to send away. Let this be a reminder of who you belong to.”

The words are followed, quickly, mercilessly, by a barrage of blows - each one timed exactly to the moment when the blinding flash of the previous strike has ebbed just to an intolerable burn; to the moment when he tries to suck in the stuffy, stale air trapped around him into his lungs, only to have it flogged out of him before his can grasp it. 

The first few strikes beat the existential panic down. 

Then the spinning thoughts.

The guilt.

The sad ache, which he’d forgotten under the layers of everything else.

Agonised noises erupt from his mouth, but they’re not vocalisations - the sounds are physical, uncontrolled, created by the mechanism of air and pain escaping through his mouth. 

Blow by blow, his body ignites and his mind is stripped down to his basest parts - and it is _glorious._

The only thing the whipping doesn’t dent is his arousal. 

And he can’t _breathe._

Henry’s voice is black with desire. “It only took a few rounds with the belt to put my boys in line--” Lash. “--though I have much lower hopes for you, Alexander.”

Fire explodes against his buttocks, but these words add a fresh pain. Henry has planted a thought, and Alex can’t escape from it - the image of John, small, scared, trembling, suffering this treatment. He groans, lewdly, involuntarily, into his own duvet.

Deep, sour nausea curdles his stomach. His cock throbs, heavy and aching-hard.

“No son of mine would have dared to disobey me like you did.”

The lash lands lower, catching the side of his hand. Henry punctuates it with a grunt.

“No son of mine would have shown me such disrespect.”

The belt snakes around his hip, the lashing end striking against the bone. It’s a discordant new note that cuts through the symphony of hurt. 

But the words - the words cut worse. He can’t stand to hear them.

“God, I’m sorry! Please! Please, stop,” Alex sobs, muffled, sucking in air, not sure if he actually means it but certain that Henry will not. 

He has a fraction of a second to wonder about what he would do if he actually _did_ want this to stop - but stopping itself doesn’t seem like it’s _allowed._

It doesn’t matter. It’s _not_ stopping. 

“My sons know their place.” Lash. “They show the proper respect.” Lash. “Do you know what that must mean, Alexander?” Lash. “You are not worthy of being my son.” 

Henry punctuates this with a vicious whistling strike, but the pain is dull compared to the way these words rip the substance from his chest. 

Did _John_ hear these words, too?

Is this what it is to have a father, he wonders suddenly, as the afterimage of a terrified John settles beside him on the bed. A perfect contradiction of protection and fear. A man who keeps all dangers at bay - except himself. And who, when he leaves, allows the other dangers to flood in again.

The next touch is not a strike, but a caress of Henry’s hand - though Alex still yelps and sobs at the contact. He wonders perhaps if this is a signal that he’s been punished enough, but - no, it’s only a momentary reprieve, because it seems that Henry just needs to catch his breath before measuring his next angle of attack. 

Alex is brought out of his heartache and back to his physical agony with another lashing whip of pain across his buttocks, right at the intersection of a dozen previous blows. 

He howls furiously, heedless of the neighbours.

Henry grunts and strikes again - right, exactly, impossibly on the same spot - and it’s too much too much too much--

“Stop!” Alex cries. “Please, please, I can’t!”

Henry does not stop. Lashes him again, lower down, on the very softest skin of the back of his thighs. Alex howls and hangs on.

There is no existence now except bursts of blinding pain and the moments - sobbing, wailing, gasping - between them. His existence shrinks down to the twin states of experiencing agony and anticipating it.

He can’t _breathe._ He can’t _think._ He’s just babbling words out of order now, out of sense - please and stop and sir and I’m sorry and yes and father and thank you and no, no, no, no, endless strings of no.

He doesn’t even _realise_ he’s mumbling deliriously - not when Henry drops the belt, not when those burning hands are rubbing at the inflamed skin of his thighs and buttocks, as though to press the bruises in more firmly. 

Not until Henry pulls the duvet off his head to reveal that all that’s left in all the world is pain and perfect stillness and _air_ and the throbbing need between his legs.

He lies there, shaking with adrenaline and too hurt for shame, as impossible heat rises up in waves through his skin - at once an encompassing dull pain and a procession of individual burning hurts. The duvet below his cheek is soaked through with tears and saliva, but he doesn’t want to risk moving until he has to, so he just lies in this wetness. 

From the corner of his eye, he watches Henry take off his suit jacket and drop it on John’s side of the bed. He unfastens his pants, and Alex can see his cock straining hard through the fabric. That Henry is so far gone without even touching him is new - but then, none of the normal, expected things are happening anymore. 

Just the thought of that already-rigid cock brushing against him drags a moan out of his mouth. 

Henry hears it. He looks down at Alex with a dark, disparaging look. Alex cringes, but his face is pressed down so he can’t turn away. “Sit up.”

Alex carefully unwinds his fingers from the backs of his legs. His knuckles are still white when he plants his hands on either side of his head and pushes himself up, careful not to sit back too far. His shoulders sing as they stretch and he accidentally makes himself giddy - the blood rushes out of his head as he draws a proper, full breath into his liberated lungs. How incredible, some primal part of his brain muses as he tries to get his bearings back, that the world is so distant and that he can appreciate the exhilaration of an unencumbered breath--

Henry interrupts his thought with a deep, threatening sound, something like a growl, and Alex’s eyes snap instinctively to Henry’s face. He once craved the rare sightings of Henry inflamed with passion; now he feels like an idiot for ever wishing away the control. 

“Just look at the state of you!” Henry says, and curls his lip down.

Alex is trembling hard with the effort of maintaining his hovering pose, but he keeps his wide eyes up.

Henry’s hand is back in his hair, and now he yanks Alex’s head down so that he’s staring at his groin. “I said, _look._ ”

Alex can’t see the worst of the damage, but there are livid red stripes curled around the sides of his thighs; the knuckles of his right hand are mottled red and already bruising. He can see the shaking in his legs. And between them - his shaft, erect and leaking and almost purple with arousal. That, at least, makes sense. Even with all this pain, it’s the only thing he can focus on.

“And what do you see, Alexander?” Henry asks, low and snide.

He knows the answer to this. “My cock.” His voice comes out raw and hoarse.

“What about it?”

He cringes. “It’s hard.”

“Why?”

“Because you-- You--” He doesn’t have words for this.

“You’re depraved, boy,” Henry sneers. “Don’t you dare blame _me_ for this. I’m trying to teach you something, and just look at your pathetic response.”

He talks back before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry! I just need--” 

“Silence! You are being given a lesson, Alexander, and you have not even _thanked_ me. I think you should concern yourself with the consequences of my displeasure before you bother with _your_ needs.”

Henry lets his hair go and Alex waits, aching and thoughtless, for more concrete instructions. Henry lowers himself to the bed and sits back against the headboard, his legs stretched out and his pants tugged down far enough so that his cock stands free, flushed and hard. 

“Get up, Alexander, come sit on my lap.”

Alex flushes. Instructions. Good. Yes, he needs to behave now. Focus. Henry demands his gratitude. 

He steels himself and turns towards Henry. Moving his legs shifts the skin, which makes the lashes pull and stretch. But he crawls over like a scolded dog, groaning under his breath until he realises Henry will delight in these sounds, and amplifies them instead.

When he finally gets proper sight of Henry’s cock, he can’t help but stare and lick his lips and suck in a desperate breath. 

With all other thoughts and feelings stripped away, and despite the constellations of pain - or because of it - god, Alex wants that shaft thrust up his ass more than he wants air. 

But that is the _one_ line Henry will never cross, as though that particular physical act is where the line of sin is drawn and everything else they have done is somehow less than sin. The only _other_ thing Henry will never do is kiss him; the matching book-end of intimacies that they will not share. Thank god. There is no place for anything so tender and familiar here.

But if Henry won’t shove his cock where Alex most wants it, then perhaps he’ll let him have it down his throat? That’s good too. Doesn’t really matter, as long as it’s inside him, distracting, stretching, filling.

He bites and parts his lips as he gets closer, hoping perhaps to entice Henry into forgetting his other plans, but Henry doesn’t waver and Alex doesn’t dare lean in. Instead, he turns so that he’s facing away and gingerly lifts his leg so that he can straddle both of Henry’s thighs; a familiar, vulnerable position, because he has realised that Henry prefers to watch rather than to be watched, and Alex isn’t blindfolded tonight. 

And also, Henry worked hard to put these marks on him, so he deserves to enjoy the sight. Alex can barely imagine how he must look - alternating stripes in every shade of red and purple - but he tries to shift his hips enticingly and his action is rewarded when Henry hums appreciatively and a ghost of a touch grazes the curve of his hip.

“Better,” Henry says, spreading his legs so that Alex’s knees, which are on either side of them, are pushed open wider. “You are remembering your place. But I thought I told you to sit.”

Alex hasn’t forgotten; he’s stalling. He props his arms in front of him and tries to lower himself down. 

Even though he moves gingerly, his body doesn’t want more hurt. The moment his abused skin brushes Henry’s hot thigh, he flinches up and away.

Somehow, irrationally, the pain sends a throb of blood into his groin. He stifles the moan, and whimpers, “It hurts.”

“You can do better than that, Alexander. I gave you an order.”

Perhaps he could, if his willpower wasn’t utterly shorn away. If it was only the pain, he might be able to force himself to endure it. But he’s also so hot, so impossibly hard, that if his arousal notches any higher he doesn’t think he could stop his hand from curling around his shaft. Considering the state Henry’s in, he can’t fathom what would happen if he disobeyed _that_ rule.

He can’t restrain _both_ of these instinctual responses; he suspects he can barely contain even one of them. Failing would be disastrous. So the only option left is to admit defeat, and accept the shame of it.

“I can’t,” he moans pathetically, trying to find a way to explain. “I need to. I _want_ to, sir, _really._ ” His voice drops to a ragged whisper. “But I can’t, on my own. I need your help. Please, stop me from--” Which does he need more? Both, Alex decides. “From being able to move away. And from - from touching myself.”

He feels Henry sit up, and he rises a little to avoid any accidental friction against his raw skin. Henry’s hand snakes around to Alex’s waist and caresses up and down gently, steering clear of any of the marks. Alex can’t stop his trembling, and the gentle touch only serves as a contrast that heightens the anticipation of what he’s in for.

He doesn’t know if it’s his expressed desire for obedience, or the smallness in his voice, but a switch seems to flip and Henry hums softly. “Oh, Alexander. Of course I’ll help you, my boy.” 

Gentle though his words are, Henry’s gestures are firm and unyielding. He runs his hands down the sides of Alex’s arms, draws them behind him and presses Alex’s trembling hands together at the small of his back. Henry uses his own fingers to thread Alex’s together - and for a brief moment, when Henry is enveloping both of his hands in his own, Alex feels the strange sensation of being _entirely_ held. 

“Do you think you can hold on yourself?” Henry asks. “I will need my hands for other purposes.”

Alex doesn’t want Henry to let go; he thought he knew every feeling that these hands could evoke, but the tender comfort radiating from them now is such a shocking contrast from the pains they have just evoked - and so suddenly necessary to him, despite the fact that Alex did not know of it moments before - that it cuts through every other sensation. It ignites a longing in his chest for something he’s never had and cannot even name.

But Henry is not permitting him to keep it, and there is no way he’s going to be able to hold his hands in place by himself. The moment Henry’s skin touches his again, he’ll be scrabbling like a mad cat.

So he shakes his head no. He _wants_ to be capable of this - but there’s just no way. The frustration that he’s not up for what should be a simple command wells up in his chest, and he lets Henry hear his hitched sob of distress.

“Oh, that’s all right, little one.” 

Henry shifts his wrists into one hand and lets go with the other. Alex hears fumbling. Then the sound of the dreaded belt, sliding closer. 

He shudders and flinches involuntarily. He can’t bear another hit. “No, please, I’m sorry, I’ll try--”

Henry laughs and runs a soothing thumb against his forearm. “There will be no more of that for today, Alexander. I have a different use in mind for this.”

Alex hears the belt moving behind him, his senses now laser focused on its every creak. Henry takes his unprotesting wrists in opposing hands and pulls, crossing Alex’s arms, which draws his shoulders back uncomfortably and pushes his chest out. Then he adjusts his grip, releases one hand and starts to wind the belt between his forearms, first vertically, then horizontally, until Alex’s arms are immobilised behind him in the tightly woven cross.

The game has changed again; Henry has _never_ used restraints. He has always demanded that Alex choose, in every moment, to keep participating. Henry does it because it heightens Alex’s shame, but it only works because there has always been the option to leave, before. There are no such options now. Henry has backed him into the furthest, smallest, safest corner of his world - his own home, his own _bed._ So the pretence of choice is no longer necessary. Henry has eliminated all refuges except for the one he keeps in his own hands.

“There, will that hold you?”

Alex tests the bind. It doesn’t budge, though his shoulders are already straining from the angle. 

“Yes,” he whispers.

This feeling of helplessness is another new and frightening one. Yes, Henry’s voice and hands can knot him up in inescapable bonds - but only because Alex permits the spells they cast. He has never been truly helpless. And the force with which Alex feels himself tied suggests that there is no quick way out of this, even if something were to go wrong. 

But with this totality of surrender comes the matching in-rush of arousal. He doesn’t have to be complicit, just this once. The fact that Henry can touch him, use him, _hurt_ him without Alex needing to permit it creates a paradoxical split - his body tenses, but his mind quiets beautifully. The pleasure in this thought is so strong that his inner thighs tighten and his hips rut forward - pointlessly, against thin air. His arms forget for a moment that they are bound and his fingers twitch with the frantic need to apply pressure to the heavy thing between his legs.

Not having the option to defend or relieve himself simplifies things. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says with a little sigh of genuine gratitude. 

“I do so much for my boys,” Henry muses fondly. “It is nice to be shown the proper appreciation.” He runs a tender hand along Alex’s spine, between his straining shoulder blades, up to his neck. The kind words and gesture lull Alex just long enough that he yelps when Henry’s hand tightens in his hair. Then he’s pulled down into Henry’s lap and it transforms into a ragged cry - just short of a scream.

“That’s my boy,” Henry growls into the skin of his back. The pretense of care is gone. The gravelly lust is back.

Henry grips tight to his shoulder with the other hand. With relentless pressure, he drags Alex down until he is firmly seated - ass pressing into Henry’s lap, legs snug against Henry’s hips and thighs, and the impossibly hot shaft nestled between his buttocks. 

For a long while, Henry just holds him there. Alex quickly starts to shiver. It’s too much heat on the endless stretches of inflamed skin that are being forced against Henry’s body. The pain escalates until he realises he has screwed his eyes shut and is shaking his head back and forth, heedless of the pull of his hair.

“Sit still,” Henry orders.

Alex tries. He can’t stop his shaking, but he tries to relax and bear the suffering. All he can think of are those burning places. He tries, he tries; then he moans in frustration as his legs start to clench and twitch, and he has enough frantic strength left that he can push away just a little before Henry drags him back.

“Even now, you cannot manage something so simple?” Henry’s voice is full of heat. “What use are you to me, boy, if you can’t follow these basic instructions?” But Henry must know this is _impossible!_ Alex is squirming now; that just hurts worse, but he can’t help it.

Suddenly, even through his blinding burn, Alex feels an unmistakable throb in the cock that presses against his ass, a response to his restless fidgeting. Henry breathes a hot sigh against his shoulder. Alex’s skin crawls even as he whines and shifts again. This feels perverse, far too intimate.

“Perhaps,” Henry breathes, “You have the right idea after all.”

Henry releases his shoulder and slides his hand down Alex’s arm to grip the belt. Alex feels the other hand let go of his hair, but Henry has enough leverage to hold him firmly in place by the belt alone - especially as Alex is half-senseless, unbalanced and wrung out.

He gets a moment to wonder what this means, and where Henry will put the free hand. It’s too much to hope that it will be on his--

Then his vision whites out and the air is forced from his lungs, because Henry draws back his hand and smacks him squarely on the worst of the welts on his ass. The shattering flash of pain makes him yelp wildly and scramble to shift away, but his arms are restrained so tightly that he has precious little room to move. There’s no _escape._

His agonised struggle excites the cock pressing against him. Henry rumbles, low and affected.

“If I must do all the work, Alexander, at least let me have the benefit of your cries.”

Henry aims his next smack lower down on his rump, and Alex chokes and jumps away, but the twist of his shoulders brings him firmly back. He groans as the pain recedes and the lust comes back; he clenches his thighs against Henry’s, but there is no angle that will allow even a little pressure against his engorged shaft.

Escape. Rut. Breathe. 

Those are the only things he needs in all the world, and the first two are impossible. So he sucks air desperately into his lungs like it can make up for everything else.

The smacks are _nothing_ in comparison to the nerve-blinding fire when Henry rakes his nails across the abused skin along the back of his thigh. 

It hurts, too, too, too much. He fights properly to escape now, pure animal instinct, pain overriding pleasure. Confirms that he can’t - he has no leverage with his arms wrenched back and not an ounce of strength left in his shuddering legs. Hears the low rumble of pleasure from Henry at the sight and sound of his frantic struggle. 

He starts to sob helplessly. 

It’s the purest, least complicated feeling he’s ever experienced.

Henry toys with him now, like a child delighting at dismantling a new plaything. The free hand roams widely and unpredictably, so Alex can’t steel himself, and has no choice but to surrender to the perfectly crafted tortures. There are pinches everywhere - on the rawest welts, but also on the tender places behind his knee and along his ribs; tickles and caresses; scratches; firm fingers pressing up his spine and at the hollow of his throat. He twists and tries to wrestle away and produces an aria of noises that harmonise his misery and need.

And every time he pushes his hips back, he shudders as Henry’s erection slides along the cleft of his ass - burning hotter and harder each time, until Alex does not know how Henry maintains his control. And - _fuck_ \- even now he wants this cock _inside_ him, tearing him open and adding another dimension to the ache. 

God, just the thought is enough to make him cry out desperately.

As though reading his mind, Henry holds him down and grinds up into him and Alex can’t help the raw groan that spills out of his mouth. His arousal has been stoked so high that all the pain has diminished in comparison again, like he's riding the cruellest see-saw. “Please!” he groans wildly, without meaning to.

Henry stills. “Please what, Alexander?”

“Please, anything-- Please!”

He can hear Henry’s deep, quickened breathing as he leans forward, tugging Alex back by his arms until they are pressed together and Henry can murmur in his ear. “You must be more specific, my boy.”

Alex is too strung out to formulate any complex thoughts. “Your hand, sir, please!” he begs, because _hands_ is the only thing he can think of that isn’t Henry’s shaft and he isn’t allowed _that._

“Where?”

“My cock, please, please, sir!”

“Do you really think that you deserve that?”

He can’t even parse the question. “Yes, no, please,” he moans, hoping one of those is the right answer. “ _Please._ I’ll do anything.”

Henry whispers. “Anything?”

Alex nods frantically, doesn’t care. Henry could start cutting pieces out of him with a blunt knife, as long as he gets friction on his cock.

Henry’s hand drifts down to his knee, then starts to stroke up the inside of his thigh, impossibly slow. “ _Anything,_ Alexander?” Henry purrs. 

The fingers tickle the curve at the top of his thigh. So close. So close. Alex pants and strains forward. So close now, he might die from the anticipation. Fingers right at the crease of his groin. So close he can feel the heat from the back of Henry’s hand--

“But, my boy, I already have _everything._ ” And Henry’s hand slips between his legs and the soft touch becomes an agonised clawing grip on the raw skin of his buttocks.

Alex howls - in agony, in betrayal, at the shock of being denied. He dissolves into dry, choking sobs. 

He has forgotten his panic and fear, forgotten how to think, doesn’t even feel the shame anymore. He is nothing, now, but a throbbing cock and a hoarse throat and some bits of burning skin holding it all together.

Suddenly - at this crescendo of sensation - Henry shifts away.

Alex realises the buzzing he can hear is real, and not just the sound of every nerve in his body singing.

He’s half-delirious; his conscious mind struggles to surface, to understand what is happening.

He is distantly aware of Henry slipping his phone out of his jacket pocket.

Henry pushes his chest firmly against Alex’s back, the bound and twisted arms squashed painfully between them. One of his hands comes up and clamps over Alex’s mouth, silencing him, then Henry leans back against the headboard, pulling Alex down so that he is stretched out awkwardly on top of him. The press of hot skin against his welts reignites the burn. 

There's the unmistakable sound of Henry answering the call, right beside Alex’s ear.

“Jack!” Henry says pleasantly, and only barely out of breath. "Did you have a good flight?"

Oh god! Alex can hear John’s muffled voice distantly through the speaker. No, no, not _now!_

He twists his hips and makes a furious sound of protest, but Henry just tightens the grip on his jaw. 

"Yes, right,” Henry says wryly into the speaker, “And perhaps next time you'll fly first class, like I've told you. Is everything in order at the house?”

Alex can’t make out John’s words, but he hears his tone - light and pleasant, a little tired, laughing fondly at something. Alex scrunches up his eyes, but that just pulls the image of John closer, so he forces them open again. Tries not to see is own ceiling, the one he’s stared at during sleepless nights and cozy mornings and tender moments of lovemaking.

Henry laughs in response. “It’s not every day their big brother comes to stay, so it’s all right just as long as they’re all in bed now. Tell me - what are your plans for the next few days?"

John starts to speak as Alex’s head swims and his body writhes, breathless and broken. 

Then Alex feels Henry’s hips shift, his cock slide forward. Feels a little tremble rippling through the body below him. 

No, no, no, he wants to scream, and he knows that he really means it this time. Henry _can’t_ be doing this - pleasuring himself against Alex’s body while John chatters away in his ear. Alex tries to struggle again, but he doesn’t have any way to stop it. Even if he could move away, even if he could speak, he doesn’t have a signal that would bring this horror to a halt.

He starts to cry. The tears slip down his burning cheeks and pool up around Henry’s hand.

Henry shifts his seat, and his hot skin scrapes against Alex’s ass and thighs. He can’t hold down the moan; it muffles into the suffocating hand. 

At the sound, Henry stills his hips and clears his throat. 

“Ah, no, there’s no one else here, Jack - it must be the television.”

There’s a sound like John laughing, and then a question.

“Dinner? Ah. I won’t deny that it was a little awkward at first, but I think that Alexander and I managed to find some common ground.” 

Henry says more, but doesn’t press up against him again. Alex can’t escape with his body, so he tries to pull his mind away instead.

But all he can think of is John; John and Henry and John. Alex always thought that Henry summoned John to shame and excite _him._ It had never occurred to him that it might be for Henry’s benefit, too.

No. _That’s_ a fucking lie. 

Of course he’s considered this utterly forbidden idea. He just hadn’t allowed himself to accept it. It’s horrifying enough that Henry is willing to betray his own son like this without contemplating that Alex might actually be the saner substitute.

But the idea that Henry desires John, in all its revulsion, doesn’t really fit. Henry conjures John _against_ Alex, to drive the tension higher with constant reminders of his humiliation and infidelity. Henry doesn’t paint himself doing these things _to_ John - at least, not out loud. It’s always John on one side of the room and Henry on the other and Alex being pushed and pulled between them. 

Perhaps it’s not _John,_ then, as flesh-and-bones, but John as an idea? What does John stand for?

Alex tries to think, as the cheery conversation proceeds beside his ear. Youth, perhaps? Freedoms that Henry has never had or will never permit himself? Courage. Kindness. Trust, and a reminder of broken trust.

No, this isn’t all of it. What else? What else is John?

_A son._

He swallows down his bile. He can’t evade this conclusion. 

So, John is one piece of this, yes. 

But Alex is the other.

Because he knows that Henry is invested in Alex for _himself,_ too. They are perfectly matched in what they give each other, and perfectly bound in mutual trust. Henry calls him _ours,_ and _mine,_ and does endless little things that prove his possessiveness that he thinks Alex doesn’t notice. He’s flown hundreds of miles after spending weeks engineering this night, after all!

So, then-- 

Maybe it’s not that Henry wants John and is forced to settle for Alex instead. Maybe what Henry wants is to take what John _has,_ or at least diminish it, as though he is jealous of his own son.

Or, perhaps, Alex _is_ the thing he actually wants - but not just as a partner in this mutually illicit affair.

_As a son._

And - oh, oh god - he is about to become Henry’s son, in a sense; Henry said it himself earlier.

Christ! There are too many tangled knots here - not least the one driving this churning nausea up from his stomach. 

He wants to pretend the sickness comes purely from revulsion.

But that would be a lie, too.

Because, oh lord - _he_ needs this, too, after all. Wants it. _Enjoys_ it. Not just the entanglement with Henry-the-man, but with Henry-the-idea. 

_Henry the father._

Oh, god. Did it really take him this long to put a name to something so absurdly obvious?

He wrenches himself out of this train of thought.

“Ah, one more thing, Jack, before I let you go,” Henry says, and his ever-steady voice cracks briefly into a breathy sigh before he gathers himself again, covering it up with a cough. “I really do hate to pry, but-- I happened to notice, ah, something that looked like a bruise on Alexander’s neck.”

Alex hears John exclaim something indignant and embarrassed.

“Right, right,” Henry says. “No, of course I didn’t really think that you had been violent on purpose--”

John protests again, earnest and alarmed; Alex hears his words tumbling over each other. Henry grinds up against him again, hard, slow, agonising, covetous. Alex trembles, and feels the quiet rumble in Henry’s chest. 

“Yes,” Henry breathes, a little too roughly, and corrects with another cough. “Yes. As long as you assure me that you will behave yourself like a perfect gentleman - as befits my boy.”

John replies, short and sharp.

“Very good. All right, Jack, I won’t keep you any longer.”

They say their goodbyes. Henry hangs up and drops the phone beside them on the bedspread.

This interruption has given Alex a moment to regain his bearings. With his fresh understanding, he thinks he might have a way to finally get relief. He doesn't have long; he needs to prove his theory before he’s rendered wordless with gasps and cries again. An icy anxiety chases up his spine at the thought of what he must do, because if he’s gotten this wrong--

His brain can’t puzzle out all the angles. But he has to know. And maybe, maybe, if he’s right about this, he’ll get a fucking _hand_ on his cock before he passes out from all of his unspent need.

As soon as Henry shifts and slips the hand off his mouth, Alex turns his head to the side so that he can just see Henry from the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers earnestly, as small and helpless as he can make his voice - though very little of it needs to be acted. “I wish I could be good for you. I’ve been so terrible - but it’s because I _need_ you. Need your hands to help me.” He screws his eyes shut and chokes out, “Please, father.”

Henry doesn’t make a sound, but his reaction is evident in the sudden stillness that falls over them. There is such a long, heavy moment where neither of them moves - where Alex barely even breathes - that he starts to wonder if Henry even heard him. 

Then Henry reaches up to Alex’s right cheek and rubs his thumb through the overlapping trails of tears. 

“Oh, my poor boy,” Henry says, a new kind of broken edge in his voice, “Have I been too hard on you?”

“No,” Alex says, shaking his head emphatically. “I deserved it. I needed it. But now, I’ll be good, I promise, but please--”

“I’ll take care of you, son.”

Henry pushes them upright again and shifts Alex off his lap, manoeuvres him so that he is pushed up against the headboard, his bound arms still crammed and twisted behind him. Henry turns to face him and shifts so that he is kneeling over him, Alex’s ass pushed up against his hips and his thighs twisted out to the sides across the tops of Henry’s legs. Henry drags down on his shoulder, hard enough that Alex has to splay his legs wider to fit. The position leaves him curled up and crammed against Henry, the unforgiving press of Henry’s hot skin making him sigh and squirm.

Henry’s eyes are dark and hot on him. His hand comes up to cradle the side of his face, the thumb teasing the corner of his lip.

“My boys are so precious to me,” Henry says, a perfect blend of fatherly and lustful. “What would Jack do if he were here, do you think, and saw you spread out and bound like this?” he asks softly, as he forces the thumb past Alex’s slack lips. “Would he shout? Strike you? Help you up? Or do you think he would take one look at your desperate face and push himself into your mouth? You'd like that, wouldn’t you?” he muses, pushing a second, then a third finger into Alex’s mouth.

God, _yes._ To get a cock in him - any cock-- But especially John’s, here, now, in front of their father--

Christ! A tear spills out. 

He nods.

“I’m sure my boys would take very good care of each other. But for now, that duty falls to me.” 

Out of nowhere, the other hand curls around his shaft.

Oh god, oh yes! Alex groans and keens like a wild animal and his hips drive up into the touch. He sucks in a ragged breath as the hand tightens gently - he’s so, so sensitive that even this small pressure is ecstasy.

Alex meets Henry’s gaze. He’s on the brink of incoherence, his jaw hanging open as he sucks in air just so he can push out moans. “Please,” he whimpers, “I need you, father. Please, please, please let me--”

Henry smiles fondly. “You may, Alexander,” he says, and carefully squeezes as he glides his hand up Alex’s cock. 

It takes three strokes before Alex is shuddering and writhing uncontrollably, and just a few more after than until he is gasping and yelling, clenching his thighs impossibly hard around Henry’s hips, and then coming, hard, hot, endless, blissful--

He blacks out for a moment, and he is dizzy and breathless and hurting and divine and _alive_ when he opens his eyes again and looks into Henry’s.

“Are you better now, my boy?”

He nods. He is melting. 

Sated, at last.

Quiet. 

Thank god! 

Tears of relief snake down his face. “Thank you, father.”

Henry smiles down at him, fond but blistering. He trails two fingers through the cooling semen on Alex’s belly and raises the hand to Alex’s lips. He smears some of it on the corner of his mouth. 

Alex stares back, wide eyed and pleading, now clear and focused on what he needs to do next. “I want to thank you,” he whispers. Parts his lips obediently to demonstrate what he means.

“You’re such a good boy,” Henry murmurs. 

Henry’s fingers slip in past Alex’s lips and he wipes the mess on his tongue, filling his mouth with bitterness and longing.

Henry sighs. “You are so debauched, Alexander. So beautiful. As terribly as I want to use your mouth, I think I’ll be satisfied with just looking at you.” Henry takes the saliva-slickened hand out of his mouth and grips his own shaft. “Talk to me, son,” Henry says, but it’s not a command.

Alex can almost think straight, and he knows he needs this cock inside him, to sate a need even his orgasm can’t fully quench. This night won’t be complete until he gets it. He drags his eyes up to Henry’s face and finds Henry looking at him with a mixture of lust and intensity and _something._

“Please, father,” he says desperately, struggling against the bonds as he strains forward. He licks his lips suggestively. “I need you in my mouth. Down my throat, choking me.” Henry’s gaze darkens. “Father, please!”

Henry stills his hand, then in a blistering motion he drags Alex down and kneels over chest, and the hand that was on his cheek slips around to grip the back of his head.

Alex moans with relief as the cockhead slides in past his lips. Shakes and cries with it when his throat spasms as it’s filled, fast and hard.

This - yes, this - is perfect, now.

Like him, Henry does not last long. Alex spurs him on, groaning deeply whenever he isn’t gurgling or choking, and Henry comes so suddenly that he isn’t even buried deep down. His seed spills across Alex’s tongue, and the surprise of it makes Alex sputter and cough. Trails of semen and saliva leak out past his lips - down his chin and neck, down onto the bedding - as he heaves for air.

He registers only distantly that Henry pulls him upright and spends some time unwinding the belt. The tingle as blood rushes back into his hands is just another sensation he notices and then ignores, too blank and wrung out to care.

When Henry releases him and stands up, Alex collapses down onto the sheets, onto the mess there; he doesn’t care. He is entirely spent. Limbless. Mindless. Molten. The bed could be on fire around him and he'd just let the flames take him. 

He can worry about what all of this means tomorrow. Right now, he slips in and out of awareness, but he’s _too_ unwound to fall properly asleep, somehow, and he doesn’t want to waste a moment of this blissful feeling. 

He doesn’t stir, not even to open his eyes, when Henry comes to sit next to him on the mattress some time later. 

"Alexander?"

He doesn’t acknowledge his name. He may as well be dead to the world. 

Henry lets out a soft, fond breath of laughter. "Sleep tight, then, my boy.” 

Henry is silent for a long time, and Alex isn’t completely sure that he’s still there until he speaks again, a low whisper he can barely hear. 

“I wish I could stay a little longer, just to sit here with you. I know I was hard on you today, but I hope that you know it’s only because I care so much for you. And you did so wonderfully for me. But then, you always do, don’t you, my beloved boy? You steal my breath away." 

Then Henry leans down and places a feather-light kiss on Alex’s cheek. 

Alex cannot move. 

Henry leaves the apartment quietly. 

The marks on Alex’s buttocks and thighs deepen into aching bruises throughout the night, and he feels every moment of it, because his thudding heart does not let him fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder, friends! Keep your kinks safe, sane and consensual!


	7. Epilogue

Alex is down on his knees for John, mouth filled up, two hands on the back of his head, humming sweetly as John groans and thrusts. Good. Nice

A third hand touches his hair. Who--

"It's better like this." Henry! _Fuck!_ "Here, son, let me show you."

John stops, but he doesn’t startle and shift away, and so the third hand grips tight and draws Alex down John’s cock, all the way to the root, holding him firmly in place. His throat spasms as it’s breached.

"Mmm," John says, "That’s good, father, thank you."

"Anything for my boy," Henry says, and when Alex looks up through his tear-blurred lashes, Henry is not looking at him.

He's gazing fondly at John, who stares back, lips slightly parted. "Father?" 

Henry’s hand lifts to the side of John’s face and touches, gently.

"My beloved boy," Henry murmurs, and leans in, and presses his lips softly to John’s--

\--Alex startles awake.

Home. In bed. Alone.

A flood of nausea.

He tries for a moment to keep it down, but his body provides a more persuasive counter-argument and it's almost too late when he finally hauls himself off the bed and stumbles into the bathroom, groaning in pain. 

He has eaten barely anything, so most of what comes up is bile, but that doesn’t prevent the painful tightening in his stomach or the retching that he just cannot subdue. Cold sweats break out on his neck as his psyche tries to purge itself. 

When it's done, when the shivers finally subside, he almost wishes for more sickness because he is not ready to get off the bathroom floor. 

But he must. Standing up is a challenge. He has precious little strength and it's such a long way up for the agonised tendons and skin down the backs of his legs. The damage feels deep. Deeper still is the exhaustion. Below that, the wrong kind of shame.

When Alex finally hobbles over to the basin, the face that stares back is foreign. His mind has returned to its normal speed, but all that does is give him the unwelcome clarity to truly study himself. 

Where in all this mess did Henry find anything beautiful?

His face is such a disaster that it takes some time to catalogue all of it. The dried semen and saliva around his mouth and on his chin. The dark red scab on his swollen bottom lip. The overlapping streaks that his tears have left, and the matching red puffiness of his eyes - around which are deep black rings of tiredness. The faintest pink blush on his cheek from the slap. The mottled pallor of his skin. The innocent little mark on his neck from John’s lips. His limp, sweat-soaked, tangled hair surrounding all of it.

The invisible spot on his cheek where Henry kissed him may as well be lit up in neons.

Fuck!

When he raises his hand to try to work loose the worst of the knots in his hair, Alex notices the now-yellow belt mark on his knuckles, and then the abrasions along his wrist and forearm; there’s a matching set on the other arm, too.

He smells of stale sweat and sex; his mouth is dry and bitter with Henry’s release. His head is pounding and his stomach, now even emptier, clenches painfully.

He is hungover from too much Henry. 

He braces himself and turns around so that he can look over his shoulder at the damage Henry has left. He's genuinely surprised the pain isn't worse. The curve of his buttocks and the tops of his thighs are purple-black. The marks radiate out from there into reds of all shades - first an indefinable mass of mottled bruising, then, further out, more distinct individual stripes in less-angry reds. Everywhere there are raised ridges where the skin has formed welts, and a few marks that look scabbed over. There is even a raw patch on his lower back where the belt must have rubbed against him - not that he felt _that_ at the time.

No, Alex has no doubt who owns him now. It’s going to hurt to sit down for a week.

Oh. Fuck.

The realisation hits like a muffled thud. There's _no way_ all traces of this will be gone by the time John returns in three and a half days. But instead of unleashing panic, the thought just makes him sag against the basin. Three days. That will give him enough time to figure things out.

His lip starts to bleed again as he brushes his teeth.

He steps into the shower, even though he doesn’t feel that he really deserves to feel clean after what he’s done. He punishes himself pettily by forcing himself to stay under the initial icy burst of water; the shock of it makes him shudder, but he realises how numb he must be by the fact that the cold quickly becomes distant and dull. He stares down as the water running off his body goes from brackish to clear. Then the temperature rises to a level that would be comfortably hot, but it sets off a stinging pain down his legs, so he nudges it down to an unsatisfying lukewarm. 

Hard as he scrubs - god, there’s dried come everywhere, on his thighs, on his stomach, on his face and neck and chest - he can’t wipe away the dirt that has lodged underneath his skin. 

He washes his hair twice with his normal shampoo, rubbing gently at the tender spots where his scalp was wrenched, then lathers in a bit of the fancy conditioner that John uses to keep his curls in check, to help with the tangles. He feels irrationally guilty for this tiny theft - but surely it’s because he’s taken enough from John already.

There’s no product to rinse away the damage that Henry has so carelessly left.

Feeling cleaner but not better, he steps back out of the ensuite into the bedroom. The room is as much of a wreck as he is. The duvet lies tangled on the floor. The sheets and pillows are a rumpled, sweaty, stained mess. His pants lie where they were thrown in a corner. Books have been knocked off the nightstand - when did that happen? The air smells musky and thick. 

There is no sign of his phone, which usually never leaves his side.

He needs to clean up. 

He needs _coffee._

He pulls on the oldest, softest sweatpants he can find - can’t handle the thought of underwear - then digs out one of John’s t-shirts from the laundry hamper and slips it on. Another stolen comfort.

The kitchen is mercifully undisturbed, so Alex can stare blankly into space while the coffee brews. He pours a mug and takes it into the living room. There is more disorder here.

The sofa has been shifted out of position and some of the detritus from the coffee table has been thrown on the floor. A half-empty glass of water has tipped over, soaking the carpet. Books and photo frames have been pulled out of their places on the shelves. One of the chairs at their tiny dining table has been knocked sideways and is balancing precariously on two legs; the neat stack of papers he’d been working on there has been strewn across the room. He glimpses the entrance hall and sees coats and scarves pulled off the back of the door and thrown on the floor - and pushed aside where Henry opened the door to leave.

Jesus. Did _he_ do this? All this destruction, and he doesn’t _remember?_ Something must be seriously wrong with him... 

At that thought, a knot starts to tighten in his chest - already; too soon. Fuck! Doesn’t he even get _one_ full fucking day’s reprieve anymore?

John’s hoodie lies on the floor at his feet like a corpse. 

Alex steps around it and tries to put the photo frames back into their old positions, but every arrangement just looks a little off. He shelves the books, at least, though his unease does not recede.

Henry’s spectre watches him from the corner of the room.

Shit - could Henry still be in the city? The thought of another encounter like last night, or even one that is more their ordinary speed, fills him with a fear that has nothing to do with the prospect of more pain. He puts his mug down on the shelf and goes over to the front door, locks it, then slides the deadbolt home. Henry is not getting back in.

He takes the opportunity to hang all of the clothes back up, and every time he bends down he gets a painful reminder of how badly off course this thing with Henry has gone.

Alex has never felt _guilty_ like this before.

He hangs up the last coat and puts the things on the little shelf beside the door back into place.

\--wait, shit, he can’t remember where he put down that fucking spare key. 

The key fails to materialise, but Alex finally finds his phone underneath the sofa when he pushes it back into place. There is a missed call and a few texts from John. And one from his boss. Well, fuck! Alex looks at the clock. 

It’s past ten. It’s _Wednesday._ He’s actually forgotten to go to work.

Alex drops heavily onto the couch - then immediately regrets it as bursts of pain shoot through his legs and spine. He jumps back onto his feet, groaning, then lowers himself down again more carefully. There’s no real way to sit comfortably, but if he tucks his legs in and leans his weight to the side, he can minimise the amount of inflamed skin that he needs to put pressure on.

He messages his boss that he has food poisoning and won’t make it in; a plausible enough lie. 

But other problems remain.

John.

Henry.

No, he needs something more manageable to tackle first. The hoodie catches his eye. 

Alex pulls up the search on his phone, and he’s scrolling through google results for how to remove blood stains from clothing when the phone rings. John. 

Alex lets it ring out, because the sight of John’s name on the screen makes him start crying. It all just floods up, sudden and ugly. 

It becomes hard to breathe.

God, he aches for John. For John’s strong, gentle arms and tender looks of concern, such a stark contrast to what John’s own father has just put him through. He’s spent less than a day without it and he is already crumbling. 

And yet he was willing to risk that just for his ugly sexual urges, which, now that they have been decanted, have left him feeling hollow and filthy - nothing like the clarity and sharpness he is used to after a round with Henry. What went so badly wrong, this time?

The beating was one thing; in the end, it worked to clear his mind, and he can’t deny that significant parts of him delighted in it. Being tied up was liberating in a way he wants to - but really shouldn’t - encourage again. 

Harder to come to terms with is this dangerous naming of their mutual fantasy. Alex does not want to linger on why Henry groans and throbs against him when he says _son._ Certainly, he will not spend any time thinking about the sick dream _he_ woke up from earlier.

But, Alex realises, the real problem is that something far worse has happened. 

This thing with Henry is _wrong,_ of course, and he has even accepted that it is a kind of infidelity. But he has never felt entirely bad about it before, because Henry provides an essential service that he cannot get elsewhere, and as long as the arrangement remains absolutely secret and bound within this obscene family dynamic, nobody is hurt and both of them can benefit from it. There has always been a clear distinction between the functional exchange with Henry, and the emotional connection with John. 

But - not anymore. Something tectonic shifted last night and a line has been irrevocably crossed. Henry has allowed genuine passion to slip into their arrangement. That was _never_ part of the deal. It _can’t_ be.

Fuck. He needs to break off this arrangement with Henry. If he does it before the wedding, he can wipe that slate clean, consign this fever dream to history, and start his new life. 

Would Henry _allow_ that?

No, he needs to stop thinking like that. Henry doesn’t _actually_ control him. That’s just part of the game. 

He shifts to ease a cramp in his leg and the deep, dull pain mocks him.

But, does he _really_ need to stop? 

Even putting the erotic submission aside - and that’s a massive thing to dismiss, essential as it has become to his mental wellbeing - Henry’s newfound paternal care and guidance feels deeply necessary after being absent for so long. Alex doesn’t want to give it up. The solid, steady holds. The joy of a safe space to give up control. The orders and rules and consequences. The kindness after punishments. The gentle touch of Henry’s hands on his own. The possessiveness. The affectionate names. _I care for you._ The kiss. _Beloved..._

Wait. Alex doesn’t have a ton of experience, but are all of these really _fatherly_ gestures? 

Or-- 

\--fuck! Could Henry be-- 

No.

No no no.

Alex’s heart rate shoots up. In allowing himself to unshackle his urges, Henry has revealed too much.

Oh god. Oh no. Alex _needs_ to end it. 

But surely now that’s going to be harder than ever. If Henry actually feels some sort of inappropriate-- _affection_ for him, that complicates things. Makes a clean break impossible. 

Fuck!

He needs someone’s advice. Yearns to ask John for help.

As though summoned, John calls again.

Alex swallows his heaving breaths and answers.

“There you are,” John says fondly, the sounds of a busy household behind him. “Busy day? How are you?”

Alex wipes at his eyes as they tear up, even though John can’t see him. “Um. Yeah. Tired.” 

“Yeah, you looked exhausted in the photo you sent.” There’s a small scuffle on the other end of the line as John laughingly fends off one of his younger brothers. “Sorry! Jemmy wants to say hi. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Alex says, trying to keep the sigh out of his tone. Jemmy jumps on the line and rattles off a stream of excited chatter, doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise. Alex needs to have a chat with him next time he’s down, he thinks; a loud mouth like that can get you into all sorts of unnecessary trouble. 

John gets back on the line. “Sorry about that. Also, sorry about last night - I feel like my whole family is being a giant pain in the ass right now. Oh, ah, but no take-backs on the whole getting married thing, okay? If you want _me,_ you’re stuck with all of us.”

“Worth it,” Alex says, fighting down his tears.

“How was dinner? My father said it went okay.”

“Oh, yeah.” There are too many landmines here. “Fine.”

“Fine?” John repeats, a note of humour. “You okay over there? I’m not used to getting one-word answers.”

“I’m fine. Tired. Didn’t get much sleep.” _And when I did, I dreamed about you kissing your father--_

John takes this at face value. “Speaking of, something really weird happened last night.” John lowers his voice. “I was on the phone with Henry and I swear to god he had someone with him at his hotel. Like a--” Alex can _hear_ John’s cringe, “A _lady_ someone. Shit, this is embarrassing... Did he say anything at dinner? I’m wondering if he came up to the city to see someone else and having dinner with us - well, with you - was just a bonus?”

“He didn’t mention anything,” Alex forces out of his constricting throat. 

“Hmm, okay. Well, _I’m_ not going to ask about it! I was thinking about it and I guess it’s a good thing, actually. It must get pretty lonely down here with just work and all these goddamn noisy kids.” He raises his voice on the last few words, and there’s a distant chorus of yelling, but the background din reduces a little. John laughs. “Anyway, I’m off to run errands just now. I wanted to check in with you about a few things quick.” And John starts to list off the items he has on his schedule today - utterly unimportant things about venue lighting and meal options that Alex can’t force himself pay attention to.

It’s too much to hear John, so light and happy, and not be in his arms. To know how deep this betrayal has gone. To imagine the devastation on John’s face if he found out. Alex can’t swallow down the sob that bubbles up in time.

“And then I was thinking-- Wait, Alex? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alex says in a completely unconvincing tone.

“Shit. What happened? What’s wrong?”

“John, I--” _I need you. Drop all that wedding bullshit and come home. Hold me. Forgive me._ “I just miss you.”

“Alex? Is this about last night? Did something--”

“No. It’s fine, really, I’m fine, I think I’m just-- I’m tired.”

“Maybe you should leave work early?”

He stares at his own living room carpet. He can’t bear another lie. “I’m-- I’m at home.”

“What?” This seems to notch up the worry in John’s voice. After all, Alex has dragged himself to work with burning fevers and vicious flus, through storms and heat waves.

“I’m fine,” Alex says, but he can only get half of the word out before his throat tightens around a gush of tears.

“Alex? Darling? Talk to me. What happened? ...Alex?”

 _I’m fine,_ he tries to say, _I’m fine, I’m fine_ \- but his overwhelmed psyche won’t permit even this little deception.

“Alex, shit. Do you need me to come home?”

 _Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes--_ “No.” Somehow he forces that one out.

“Then you need to tell me what’s going on. You’re starting to freak me out.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Except he’s not even sure if he’s saying it out loud, and even if he is, whether John can make out the words through the breathless sobbing.

“Fuck. I’m coming back, okay?”

“No, no, don’t, I’m fine!” he sobs, but then suddenly he’s not saying _I’m fine_ anymore, but, “I’m sorry!”

“For what? Alex? What happened?”

He squeezes the sleeve of the hoodie tightly in his free hand. Sees the wreckage around him. Feels the soul-deep pains in his body. His emotional walls are all rubble; there is no armour left; no restraint or control. Henry took those with him, too.

A confession slips out.

“I fucked up. John, I--”

“What? What _happened?_ ” He can hear the confusion, the frustration, the worry in John’s voice. When he doesn’t reply, John says, “That’s it. I’m coming home.”

No, no, no, Alex sobs, an endless string of no - but he’s a Laurens, just like his father, so Alex knows John’s not going to listen to him. 

***

Alex stares at the dark screen of his phone.

John is coming. 

There’s no escaping, now. Alex has to come clean - and, now that he’s left without choices, he’s strangely looking forward to it. The guilt has been so ever-present and so entwined around him that it’s only now, as he prepares to drop the burden, that he realises just how heavy it has become. He can’t allow John to marry him without confessing his infidelity. 

Except that - of course - he can’t share the _full_ truth. That would destroy John; it would force him into choosing between his found family and his biological one. The fact that Alex is genuinely unsure if this decision would shake out in his favour is terrifying, and it’s what decides the matter.

So he resolves to keep Henry out of it, and to paint in a few less-damaging details instead. In fact, as he thinks about it, he only _really_ needs to admit to this one lapse. John doesn’t have to know the full extent of his sordid betrayal; the parts that Alex will have to share just to explain his injuries are going to be devastating enough.

He curls up on the couch, clutching the hoodie, and waits.

***

Alex is on hands and knees, John behind, his hard shaft fully seated and his hips grinding into him - deep, slow, perfectly targeted to hit that sweet spot inside him.

Alex is groaning - at least in those moments when he isn’t choking. Henry’s got him by the hair, pulling him off his cock just often and far enough that Alex can snatch air before dragging him down again.

“You really should try this, father,” John says lightly, pulling out a little just so he can thrust into Alex a bit more forcefully. “He’s really tight and responsive.”

Henry chuckles. “Oh, I am perfectly content here, Jack. He’s making the loveliest little vibrations. Go ahead, give him another firm one for me.”

John drags his cock out almost all the way, then grips Alex’s hips tightly and thrusts back in. Henry lifts him up just far enough that Alex can vocalise the filthy moan that John shoves out of him. Then Henry claims his raw, spasming throat again. 

“Perfect, Jack. You’re such a good boy.”

John makes a contented little sound. “You know I just want to make you happy, father.”

“Sharing your plaything with me is a good start.”

“A start?”

“Yes, Jack.” Henry shifts his seat a little, jostling the shaft in Alex’s throat just to make him gag. “Having you pleasure me through Alexander is delightful, but I would very much like to break you in myself, one day.”

“ _One_ day?” John asks, and pulls his cock all the way out of Alex’s ass. “Or… today?”

Henry hums approvingly as he also drags Alex off and away. "Oh, my beautiful boy, I have always been ready for you,” Henry purrs. 

Alex catches a glimpse of the intent gaze in Henry’s eye as he appraises John. _He_ used to get that look. Now, Alex is utterly forgotten, as John pushes him away from between Henry's spread legs and leans in to take his place--

***

\--Alex wakes, utterly disoriented, to darkness and tightness in his groin and the sound of a key in the door. 

John!

Alex pushes himself up. He’s been lying with his face pressed into the hoodie, which he’s still clutching tightly in both hands. The ache in his ass and thighs is no better after more sleep, but he makes himself sit up anyway. He tamps down the fresh nausea and ignores the little pulse between his legs. 

Fuck! What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

He feels a strange mix of relief and panic. John is _here, home_ \- but Alex has messed things up so badly he doesn’t know how he’ll ever redeem himself. Or how John will react. This might be the last time John ever looks at him with any amount of love and care in his eyes.

The door rattles but doesn’t open. 

“Alex?” John bangs on the door. “Alex, are you there?”

Oh, shit. The deadbolt.

“I’m coming,” he calls hoarsely and heaves himself up to his feet. His legs are much stiffer, now.

He shuffles over and slides the bolt open. John almost smacks him with the door.

John.

Alex can’t imagine how he must look - bruised and battered and exhausted, crumpled up, distraught - but the shock in John’s expression hurts worse than every second of Henry’s violence combined. 

“Oh god - Alex!” John croaks, then flings himself forward and envelops him entirely in his arms. Alex lets out a grunt of pain but he doesn’t pull back. His numb fingers dig into John’s back and he hangs on tight as he cries again, choking and heaving.

John clings to him, not asking anything, just making little sounds of comfort and distress. Alex never, ever wants to let go, because for as long as John is still holding him like this, everything isn’t broken between them yet.

So when John finally does let up a little, just to pull back and look at his face, the anguish of it makes Alex’s legs give way. He slides heavily down to the floor. Onto his knees, in front of John, clinging to his legs as he buries his face against John’s thigh.

“Alex?”

He forces himself to look up, to see John’s eyes filled with an excruciating blend of worry, pity and suspicion.

“John,” Alex sobs, and hides his face again, “I need your help.”

**Author's Note:**

> That_Would_Be_Enough, what have we done??
> 
> Perhaps one day, readers, we'll discover how deep this dark pit goes...
> 
> Send the plagues of Egypt after me on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend


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